


A Judicious Application of Free Will

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Civilian Dean, Family, First Meetings, First Time, Friendship, M/M, Meta, Mystery, Recluse Castiel, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lives the simple life in Lawrence, running the family business at Winchester Hardware. When Castiel moves into the neighborhood, they strike up a friendship that has the chance to become something more. But before that can run its course, the secrets of Castiel’s past catch up with them both, and their whole world changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> **Other pairings and characters:** : Sam/Jess, John/Mary, Anna, Jo, Gwen, Zachariah, Michael, Becky, Bobby, Kali, Baldur, Death.
> 
> Written for the SPN/J2 Big Bang 2011. Full master post with links to art and author's notes are on my [dreamwidth journal here](http://scaramouche.dreamwidth.org).

For all intents and purposes, the day that Dean met Castiel was the day he made his first delivery to the McArthur house.

According to Dean, almost every town had its own landmark of the like: that building that was more often uninhabited than not, and around which local imagination and legends circled persistently. In this particular corner of Lawrence, that place was the McArthur house, into which one Castiel Allen had moved in a couple of days earlier.

Not that it looked newly occupied when Dean drove his Impala up to where the house was partially hidden by the trees of its compound.

The sight was as Dean remembered from the couple of times he’d been there over the years; kids daring each other for kicks and teenagers looking for privacy could do worse than an abandoned house. The rusty old mailbox was still old and rusty, the pathway leading up to the front door still broken in places, the wooden boards on the windows still sealing them shut.

Dean picked up the fax he’d left on the passenger seat.

The address was correct. Castiel Allen’s name was printed neatly in block letters, declaring him the tenant of the house. Underneath that was a list of Items #1-14 that had been ordered from Winchester Hardware, along with a confirmation that the buyers accepted the store’s terms, conditions and direct delivery service charges. The McArthur estate lawyer’s signature signed off the request, making it all neat and by the books.

Dean turned back to the house.

He wasn’t a superstitious person, but he’d watched _Psycho_ and _The Amityville Horror_ enough times to be wary of buildings that loomed quietly on a hill. The house had once been an attractive product of the Baby Boomer era, but time and neglect had turned it into a shadow of its former self, and it didn’t help that its new tenant was, as of that moment, completely uninterested in making it more welcoming.

There was no bell, either, when Dean finally made the trek up to the front door. “Hello?” He knocked a little harder. “Hello _?_ ”

Dean was just starting to think it was all an elaborate prank when he finally heard movement on the other side. The door creaked ominously when it opened, pulling inwards just far enough to reveal a gloom-filled maw, in which Castiel was wrapped in unfriendly shadow.

“Thank you,” were Castiel’s first words to Dean. “You can leave those there.”

“You need to sign for ‘em,” Dean said, pulling out a clipboard. Multiple blinks didn’t help his vision much, so all he could see of Castiel was the pale hand that reached out to accept the paperwork. “You Castiel Allen?”

“Yes.” When the clipboard came back out Dean could see Castiel’s thin wrists, around which loose sleeves dangled. “Thank you.”

“Uh, wait,” Dean said, foot catching the door when it started to close. “You good with Monday for the next delivery?”

“I’ll be here. You can leave the items at the door then as well.”

“Actually, no,” Dean said slowly. “You ordered a fridge. I’ll be installing it for you.”

“Oh.” There was a pause while Castiel considered this. “Is that necessary? Won’t it come with instructions, that I may install it myself?”

“It’s all signed and paid for, dude,” Dean said. “Better to go with it.”

Castiel sighed. “Very well. I’ll see you on Monday.”

That was all Dean got before the door was shut in his face.

Dean stared at the wood paneling for a brief, shocked moment, and then muttered, “You’re welcome.” But his irritation didn’t last long, and by the time he’d returned to his car, he’d brushed it off as the forgettable behavior of another forgettable customer.

  


* * *

  
Dean Winchester, born of John and Mary Winchester, was in the prime of his life. He was in charge of the family business, thought highly of his perky nipples, and owned what was, in his opinion, an awesome set of wheels: a ’67 Impala, purchased by John before Dean had been born.

It wasn’t a glamorous life, but big cities made Dean nervous, the family store provided a helpful service to the community, and Dean was more than glad to wave his fist in the face of anyone who implied that he was a loser for having decided to stay in the town of his birth. By Dean’s standards, Lawrence was fucking awesome, so he held on to the age-old word of wisdom that there was no place like home.

All things considered, Castiel’s arrival in Dean’s life was merely a catalyst for the inevitable.

  


* * *

  
The McArthur house wasn’t interesting in and of itself, but it was the setting for what was to follow.

Sam, Dean’s younger brother, once asked Dean about that house. He’d been five at the time, curious and full of questions, so Dean had gleefully told him that the house had been built by Old Man McArthur on the bodies of family members he’d killed after a fatal Thanksgiving get-together, and that every year onward, on that exact date, his victims would knock against the town’s pavement blocks from the underneath, begging for help.

Mary had ripped Dean a new one for making up that story, and then explained to a wide-eyed Sam that the house had been built back in the late 60s by an architect named Paul McArthur. The only sinister thing about the house was the family drama that had led to it being abandoned, its current owner living elsewhere and disinterested in returning to Lawrence.

Even after Sam grew up and left — and Dean grew up and stayed — the McArthur house and its penchant for drawing the imagination of the locals remained a constant. Castiel’s setting up camp there set tongues a-wagging, for who would want to move there now, after the house had been abandoned and left to rot for so long?

Dean, however, had chosen to believe that Castiel’s business was only relevant where it gave Dean’s store business, and that was that. Not that it stopped his employees from asking when he returned to work after making that first delivery.

“So it’s true?” Tiff asked from where she was minding the cash register. “Someone’s really moved into that spooky ‘ol place?”

Dean rolled his eyes at the predictable question but said, “Yep, guess so.” Mickey, who was supposed to be busy stocking the shelves, turned his head to listen in. A couple of customers browsing the shelves had, too.

“But did you _see_ him?” Tiff pressed. “What does he look like?”

“Not a clue,” Dean said, a small part of him gleeful at Tiff’s scandalized expression. “No, really, I couldn’t see his face. What was I supposed to do, force my way in just to get a picture of the poor guy?”

“He didn’t let you see his _face_?” Tiff exchanged a quick look of intrigue with Mickey. “That’s suspicious. He could still be a vampire and didn’t want to get exposed to sunlight.”

“Yes,” said Mary Winchester, who slid up to the counter and into the conversation with the ease of a veteran. “A vampire that ordered a vacuum cleaner because he was getting annoyed with all the dust getting into his coffin.”

“Hey, that’s what I thought, too!” Dean said gamely, which made Mary snort and Tiff huff with annoyance.

“But surely there’s something else?” Mickey blurted out. “Even if you didn’t see his face, you must’ve heard his voice. Did he sound suspicious?”

“What the hell does suspicious sound like?” Dean asked. “He was a dude, he sounded like a dude, that’s all I got. And get back on inventory, I’m paying you by the hour.”

Mickey peeled away with a sheepish grin, and Tiff took the hint not to press any further.

Dean didn’t blame the others for being intrigued, as a big-news day in their part of Lawrence was when someone started their spring cleaning a week earlier than usual. Everyone found their entertainment where they could.

The funny thing here was that Dean thought of himself as a superior being who was above all of that, which was why he’d dismissed the inquiries on Castiel with a good-natured eye-roll. In reality, Dean was just as much a gossip queen as the rest of them, though the difference lay in how Dean compartmentalized that behavior. To Dean, he didn’t get up in other people’s business, he was just having friendly humanitarian interest.

Dean displayed that exact brand of humanitarian interest later at home, while talking into the phone wedged between his chin and shoulder. “Yeah, man,” he said, flicking his remote at the TV, “Either that guy’s getting a really good rate or a really shitty one. I can’t see any other reason why anyone’d want to move up there. It’s a pretty sweet location, but damn, it’s a fixer-upper.”

On the other end of the line, Sam made a thoughtful sound. (It was almost always Sam on the other end, when it came to Dean’s phone.) “ _And you’re sure it’s all green-lit by the owners. He’s not a… I don’t know, a con-man bumming a stay, or something?_ ”

“The paperwork looks legit, I’ll give it that.” Dean stretched his legs out in front of him, resting his heels on the coffee table. “Mom got the call from that creepy lawyer of theirs before he moved in. I just don’t see the point, you know what I mean? If you’re just passing through, why not stay at a motel?”

“ _Why are you assuming he’s only passing through_?” Sam asked. “ _It’s not a bad place to live, and the location’s pretty good. Quiet and private, like you said. Maybe he_ is _going to fix it up, but just hasn’t gotten around to starting on it yet_.”

“I guess,” Dean said reluctantly. “It just doesn’t quite add up, you know? Quiet guy, been here over a week, no one’s seen him anywhere around town? What’s up with that?”

“ _Don’t look at me, you’re the one who called to tell me all about this breaking news_ ,” Sam said, laughing softly. “ _Hey, does the house look the same_?”

“Oh yeah, it’s all there, right down to the creepy curving road that used to freak you out.”

Sam gasped. “ _Hey, it did not_ —”

“No need to be embarrassed,” Dean said, the easy tease having Sam predictably bristling. “It’s not like I told anyone ‘bout how you used to go all Charlie Brown imagining that the house was alive. Well, besides Jess. Is she there? Say hi, if she’s there.”

Sam said, “ _Yeah, she’s—”_ just as Jess chimed in with a cheerful, “ _Hi, Dean!_ ”

“Nice to know you share man time with the love of your life, dude,” Dean said.

Jess’ voice was louder when she said, “ _Oh, I see, ‘man time’. Is that like when you guys argue about who Dr. Sexy should be making the moves on this week?_ ”

“ _Dammit, Jess_ ,” Sam said, the protest coming out as an embarrassed squeak. “ _You know I don’t watch that, that’s just Dean—”_

“Oh, so you’re selling me out to Jess now.” Dean grinned at the sounds of Sam and Jess tussling on the other end. “I see. That’s how it goes, thanks a lot.”

“ _Shut up_.”

Dean leaned back against the cushions, gaze drifting up to the ceiling, and thought nothing strange about the fact that Sam, who was far away and living his life elsewhere, was the only person he had to talk about frivolous things.

  


* * *

  
Monday brought with it the arrival of John Winchester and his truck.

Winchester Hardware didn’t have its own vehicle since there was rarely the necessity for it. Deliveries and pick-ups for their business were few and manageable by Dean’s readily-available Impala or, previously, his father’s truck. But in this case, Castiel Allen’s home order included a refrigerator. It had been Mary’s idea to call John, though Dean had been the one to do the actual calling to ask if it’d be okay for John to drive out here and help out.

John had said yes. So there he was, on the agreed day, parking his truck in front of the store as though nothing had changed.

Dean remained behind the counter, watching over the rim of his coffee cup as Mary stepped out of the store to greet him.

It wasn’t, in Dean’s words, a goddamn show for people to gawk at, but he bit his tongue and ignored customers and employees that slowed down to watch Mary and John converse in public. Their hushed whispers of _what’s he doing back_ and _awkward, much_ and _well, this is interesting_ made Dean hate each and every one of them — but only a little bit, and only for a little while.

Mary’s body language was neutral, her arms lax by her sides. John matched her stance, though his hands were pushed tight into the pockets of his leather jacket. Their greetings were professional, their conversation short, and they entered the store with a buffer of air between their bodies.

Dean, knowing what was expected of him, smiled. “Hey, Dad.”

“Dean,” John replied. There were new lines around his eyes and mouth from the last time they’d seen each other, and his shaving wasn’t quite as neat. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Dean glanced to Mary for the appropriate cue. He wasn’t as subtle as he thought. “Yeah, we can, uh…”

“All the stuff’s out back,” Mary said, her smile just a little stiff as she glanced at John. (Mary and John, with their years of words and complicated affection between them, were now reduced to polite reserve.) “Juan’ll help you load up.”

The awkwardness only got worse by the time they’d loaded the fridge and Dean got into John’s truck with him. Dean _was_ glad to see his father, but familial loyalty was a thing in Dean’s head (and heart) that couldn’t be spliced. Mary and John sliding into separate places wasn’t something Dean was well-equipped to handle.

The theory had been: do not choose, for there is no choice. But Dean had chosen anyway; he was still living in Lawrence, still helping out his mother at the house, still helping with the store. John knew it and Dean knew it, so being together — even if only for a few hours’ work — was a matter of navigating delicate ground.

“Uh, so you got the list?” John asked.

“Yep.”

There were plenty of things Dean could talk about with John before, and goodness knew there were plenty of things to update each other with since John’s moving, but this was tricky territory for both. There was a painful near ten minutes of silence before John finally sighed and turned on the radio.

The music only relived a little pressure. Dean caved, and tried not to feel like a child wandering where he wasn’t allowed. “So where are you staying?”

“I got an apartment,” John said. “Just, you know, renting. It’s not far from the workshop, so it’s good.”

“Oh, okay,” Dean said weakly. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

And that was the extent of suitable conversation.

As John drove on, Dean had the idle thought that it might’ve been good if Sam were there since he was better at filling up empty spaces like these. At the same time, Dean was glad Sam _wasn’t_ there because he’d have a hell of a lot more opinions to share with John on the matter.

“Dean,” John said, “I hope you know I—”

“I get it,” Dean said quickly. “Look, Dad, it’s only… Can we just do the job today?”

“Sure.” John nodded, a little guilty in his relief. They drove for a while in mutually-accepted silence, John tapping on the steering wheel in time with the music on the radio before saying brightly, “So! The McArthur place, huh?”

“God, yeah, I know,” Dean groaned. “Talk about completely random.”

The only change at the house since Dean’s last visit was that a couple of boards had been removed from the first floor windows. The windows themselves remained closed and the curtains drawn, so it was hardly any friendlier now than it had been then.

“Well, shit,” John said, whistling softly. “Someone actually lives in there now?”

There was no way Dean couldn’t smile at that. “Don’t look at me. I only work here.”

There was a notice on the front door, written in neat script: ATTN: D. WINCHESTER, THE BACK ENTRANCE IS OPEN.

Castiel wasn’t there when they drove the truck around, but the back door was indeed open. The lawn was just as unkempt as it been in the front, but there had been some crude attempts to cut down the grass closest to the door.

Leaving John to unload the truck, Dean walked up to the open door. It lead into the kitchen, which was worn down but clean, with recent rudimentary steps taken to make it livable. The tabletops and floor were as shiny as they were ever going to get, plates and cups arranged neatly on the counter, some recently washed things hanging on the strainer. The mop that Dean had brought over the last time was leaning against the wall, recently used.

It wasn’t bad at all, considering Castiel had only moved in a week prior.

“Hello?” Dean called out, knocking on the door frame. “Castiel Allen?”

“Yes.” A shadow stepped around a corner, solidifying under light into human shape: Castiel Allen, he of thin wrists and large clothing. When Dean’s eye drew downward, he mentally added: and of the bright orange slippers. “Thank you for your prompt delivery.”

“We do pride ourselves on excellent service.” Dean beamed a bright Winchester Hardware grin, which only earned him a blank stare. “Right. We’ve got your stuff, can we bring it in?”

“Please,” Castiel said, backing away to let them pass.

Though busy setting things up, Dean found his thoughts hooked on the randomness of Castiel’s bright orange slippers. They were the fuzzy kind that covered almost his entire feet, and clashed with his somber clothes and somber still expression. Dean guessed that they were a gift from someone beloved, figuring that that was the only reason anyone would want to wear something so hideous. (In this particular case, though, Castiel’s poor fashion sense was to blame.)

“Dean,” John said sharply.

Dean jumped. “Right.”

They worked together unloading and wheeling the fridge into the house while Castiel hovered nearby. Dean had had plenty of customers who liked to make sure the job was done properly, but Castiel’s watchfulness went above and beyond that. He followed their every gesture and movement as though there was going to be a test afterward and anything less than an A+ was unthinkable.

“I’ll unload the rest of the stuff from the truck,” John said once they were done. “You got the paperwork?”

“Sure,” Dean said amiably, heading over to Castiel. His customer had taken out a highlighter which he then used to mark the invoices, warranties and manuals with a personal filing code. Dean watched him have at it, amused. “The place looks nice. A little sparse, but nice.”

Castiel made a non-committal sound. “Thank you. I suspect I’ll be needing more things from your store in the coming days. Your online catalogue has been most helpful.”

“You don’t need deliveries for the small stuff, though,” Dean said. “Our place really isn’t that far. Since you just got here you might not have noticed, but it’s pretty safe to get around. The weather’s only been really crazy closer to the coasts, but here we’re pretty snug and it’s an easy walk. I can draw you a map if you want.”

Castiel’s head slowly tilted up, meeting Dean’s gaze straight-on.

This was the moment that Dean made the not-entirely conscious decision to get up in Castiel’s business like it was going out of style. Castiel had been dismissive of him earlier, but he now acknowledged Dean with the full extent of his consideration. All Dean could do was stare back, frozen and trapped. He’d thought that Castiel had been intense before, but being under this new brand of penetrating glare was like being skinned alive.

This wasn’t like Mary, or teachers Dean had had, or bartenders who could tell what drink you needed from a glance. _This_ was being unable to breathe for fear that that breath would betray your secrets. It felt, incomprehensibly, like something old and ancient had stepped down from the heavens to peer at a rock, and that rock was Dean.

After a blink, Castiel was back to being an average Joe with nimble fingers, a bow-shaped mouth and impossible eyes.

“I was told that you do deliveries,” Castiel said, sounding normal and human. “Mary Winchester said precisely that on the phone.”

It took Dean a moment to find his voice again.

“Well, yes, but you don’t need a delivery for _everything_.” Dean’s awkward chuckle died quickly when Castiel’s expression didn’t change. “I mean… Look, this town’s pretty cool. There’s not a lot to see but what’s there’s not too bad, a lot of people’d love to meet you, and a little exercise never did anyone harm.”

“I get plenty of exercise maintaining this building,” Castiel said coolly. “And the garden will occupy me afterward.”

“I can imagine,” Dean said, looking around. The kitchen was in good shape, but he could see where the cabinets needed working and the stove needed scrubbing. “I still can’t believe you just up and popped in here. It’s livable, but—”

“Is this part of your customer service?” Castiel asked, perplexed. “These inquiries, are they necessary? I don’t think they are.”

“I’m just—” Dean trailed off. “Dude, I’m just being neighborly.”

“You’re referring to the fact that we live in the same town, but I don’t live here, I’m merely…” He shook his head, upset at having unintentionally said that out loud. When Castiel spoke again, he was calmer, back to being impersonal. “Thank you for your prompt delivery and excellent service. I believe payment is all in order, and I’ll contact the store when I need more things.”

Dean could see the hint for what it was, yet he found himself saying, “Wait.”

“Mary ensured me that delivery would be acceptable,” Castiel said quickly. “She told Zachariah that it wouldn’t be a problem. We can pay for it.”

“I’m not talking about money.”

Castiel scowled. “Then what are you talking about?”

Dean’s mouth hung open for a moment. “You’re — this — the house—the wiring.” He looked around rapidly. “This place’s been abandoned for years. The wiring’s got to be shot to hell.”

“I’m not a fool. There have been professionals over to inspect and repair the wiring and water.”

“The lawn,” Dean said. “You going to deal with it by yourself?”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“I can do it for you. The grounds aren’t that big but you have to cut the grass down before you can mow it. The lawnmower you just got isn’t made for that, but I know what to do. Maybe fifteen bucks an hour? One weekend should do it. And it’ll leave you free to do your other things.”

“Fifteen dollars an hour,” Castiel echoed, still watching Dean for signs of trickery. After a long moment, he said, “That would be acceptable. If I can get a receipt.”

“Of course,” Dean said, nodding. “With a stamp and everything.”

“Very well. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“Okay.” Dean turned to leave, feeling a little like that time in fourth grade where he’d gotten up on stage to make a speech and ended up garbling through the entire thing because the letters on his cards had gone blurry.

“Dean.”

“Huh?” He turned. This close, Dean could see Castiel’s eyes were blue, not the dark color he’d thought they were before.

“Is this going to be typical of you?” Castiel asked warily. “The others weren’t this pushy.”

“Oh, that’s totally my bad,” Dean said quickly. “I know I can be a bit, but it’s, you know, it’s cool, I’ll totally pull that back, zip. How about I trim your trees for you at a discount?” He flashed his brightest smile, but let it fall when Castiel’s expression didn’t change. “Am I fired?”

“Uh.” Now Castiel’s stare was one of befuddlement. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean said. “I better go.” He made his exit quickly, hoping to avoid saying something else random and stupid.

John started up the truck as soon as Dean got in, and saved his comment of “What was that all about?” until after they’d driven away from the house. “Making friends, Dean?”

“Hey, someone’s got to be the welcome wagon,” Dean said with what he thought was a casual shrug. “Might as well be me, right?”

John snorted softly. “Better you than Flanigan and her meatloaf.”

Dean barked a laugh at that.

  


* * *

  
Mary Winchester’s advice, when Dean told her about the unplanned lawn-mowing appointment, was: “Don’t forget your sunscreen, keep hydrated, and don’t be an ass and just ask for use of the bathroom if you need it.”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Dean replied. He picked the plate she’d been waving at him out of her hands, and wiped it down with a cloth. Post-dinner clean-up at the house was always a shared chore no matter who did the cooking beforehand, which in this case was Dean’s fettuccine in white sauce pleasantly settling down in their stomachs.

“You know you forget your sunscreen,” Mary said matter-of-factly. “You know how unpredictable it’s been lately. We’ve been lucky so far, but don’t you come crying to me when you have more burns than freckles.”

“Burns have more personality,” Dean said.

In his mind, Dean could still see all the dry grass of the McArthur lawn, long abandoned and ready to wreak havoc on anyone with hay fever. He could also see Castiel standing on the back porch, frowning at the weeds as though offended at their inconveniencing him.

“Dean,” Mary said warningly.

He started. “What?”

“I know that look.” She contemplated him for a long, harrowing moment, and then turned back to the dishes. “Just don’t mess around where you’re not invited.”

“I know,” Dean replied.

“I mean it.” Mary hushed his defensive protest, adding gently, “I know you like to help, which is a good thing but… be mindful of your welcome. Just a word of advice, that’s all.”

“It’s just a goddamn lawn,” Dean muttered, which made Mary roll her eyes. “Hey! C’mon, I’ve got this and you’ve got your… whatever scrapbooking thing it is you’re doing these days, like that’s anything to proud about.”

“Don’t you get snippy on me,” Mary said, flicking water drops at him. “Nature photography is an art form, my SLR lenses would make grown men weep, and you should just consider yourself lucky I haven’t learned how to sic Powerpoint on you. Yet.”

“Of which I am very grateful,” Dean said solemnly, which earned him another small splash of water. “Hey, I’m not judging.” He didn’t have strong thoughts about Mary’s newest hobbies, or that she’d only recently decided to dedicate more of her free time for them. Dean was never meant to inherit Winchester Hardware so quickly, but it wasn’t as if they’d expected the current situation with John.

Mary was quiet as she focused down on suds and silverware. Dean watched her for a while, noting the way her mouth went tight around the edges and then said, “You okay?”

It was a real question, not a metaphorical one, and the wonderful thing about Mary was that she could always tell the difference. Her responding smile was soft, not as brittle as it sometimes could get. “Not too bad.” For all that Dean loved his mother, he couldn’t trust the accuracy of that answer.

He leaned in, touching Mary’s shoulder with his own. He would never get used to the fact that he towered over her now, but she leaned back against him, natural as anything. If Sam were here he’d probably know what to say to make her feel better, but since he wasn’t, it fell on Dean to do something, and this was what he could do: dinners at the house, humoring of her hobbies, no questions where they weren’t wanted.

Mary pulled away, clearing her throat. “No, I mean it, Dean. Don’t forget your sunscreen.”

  


* * *

  
Dean didn’t forget his sunscreen. Neither did he forget the implication Mary had made that he was in this solely to meddle in Castiel’s affairs. That wasn’t entirely true, as Mary had not witnessed the way that Castiel and Dean had brought each other pause the last time they’d met.

“’Sup,” Dean said, when Castiel opened the front door to his knocking. He couldn’t help looking down, stifling an inappropriate snort when he saw that the orange slippers were still out in full force. “I’m not too early, am I?”

“This is fine,” Castiel said.

They regarded each other. Under sunlight, Castiel looked like any other regular guy Dean could’ve walked past in a grocery store or down a street without thinking twice about.

“I’ll get on it now, okay?” Dean said brightly, pulling his gloves out from his back pocket. “We’ll both time it, how ‘bout that?”

Castiel nodded slowly, cautious and uncertain, though Dean hadn’t done anything particularly suspicious yet. “Just shout if you need anything,” he said, retreating into the house. “The back door will be open.”

“Will do.” Dean’s salute earned him another one of Castiel’s apprehensive looks, and then he was gone.

Dean made good time working on the yard. He’d been doing tasks like these for years, ever since he’d learned how easy it was to supplement one’s allowance if one knew where to look. He worked across Castiel’s lawn in lines, and once in a while he’d stop, take a breath, and look up at the house. The windows were still dark, but now it was just a house, a harmless man named Castiel puttering around inside it, minding his own business.

Things would have stayed this way — with Dean outside and Castiel in — if it weren’t for the new arrival. His name was Zachariah, and he arrived on the scene while Dean was having a short break, sitting on the house’s back step and drinking from his water bottle.

“Hello?” Zachariah called out, the sounds of his approach getting louder as he came around the house. “Yoo hoo, is anyone there?”

Dean tried but failed to place the voice. It didn’t belong to anyone from town.

“Well, hello there!” Zachariah exclaimed, once he saw Dean. He had a smile that was too broad to be anything but fake, and despite Dean’s upbringing not to judge someone based on appearances, his hackles were up immediately. Zachariah zoned in on Dean as though gearing up for a sale and Dean was the lucky customer. “You a friend of dear ‘ol Castiel?”

“Are _you_?” Dean countered.

That got a booming, condescending laugh. Dean smiled, but not in good humor. He knew the type: intelligent but not smart, with a persistent attitude of looking at the rest of the world down the end of their nose.

Behind Dean, the door opened. Castiel’s smile was no more genuine that Dean’s. “Zachariah,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I just wanted to see how you’re settling in,” Zachariah said, brushing past Dean to clap Castiel on the shoulder. Castiel wasn’t a small man, but he shrunk a little under Zachariah’s attention, head dipping forward in an unconscious show of subservience that made Dean frown.

“I have made a few adjustments,” Castiel said, “But it’s hardly suitable for visitors.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Zachariah insisted. “And who’s this?”

The flare of panic in Castiel’s eyes made Dean speak up first. “Dean,” he said, stretching out a hand. “Winchester. I’m just helping out.”

“How very good Samaritan of you, Dean Winchester.” Zachariah gripped Dean’s hand between both of his, shaking firmly. “Now how about all of us go inside for some refreshments? I’d really love to see what you’ve done with the place, Castiel.”

“I’ve,” Dean glanced briefly at Castiel, who was still mildly freaking out, “got stuff to do—”

Zachariah didn’t let go of Dean’s hand. “I insist.”

The kitchen had been improved a little from the last time. Now there were a few cookbooks resting in a small pile on a counter, yellow post-its sticking out from the pages. The stove looked like it had been both used and cleaned recently. Everything else was kept away in their proper places, making it very much the kind of kitchen Mary would have liked.

Despite his earlier comments, Zachariah wasn’t interested in any of these details of Castiel’s housekeeping. That was just an excuse, and now he watched Castiel rummage around the fridge, something eerily sharp in his gaze that made Dean uneasy.

“Iced water will be fine,” Zachariah said. “That okay with you, Dean?”

“Sure,” Dean said.

It was an odd little tableau: Dean drinking his water and not knowing what the hell was going on, Castiel hunched defensively against a counter, and Zachariah having a quiet blast for perverse reasons of his own.

“So…” Zachariah glanced back and forth between Dean and Castiel, “How’d Castiel blackmail you for this one?”

Dean started in surprise. “What?”

“Oh, please. Our Castiel here’s crap at making friends,” Zachariah cooed, slyly winking at Dean. “You can tell me, c’mon.”

“Hey man, that’s—”

“When I let him have the house,” Zachariah continued, “I told him he simply could _not_ stay cooped up inside it 24/7, though I knew that was going to happen anyway. He doesn’t like crowds, do you, Castiel?”

Dean’s frown deepened. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to keep to yourself.”

“Oh, there’s _plenty_ wrong with that.” Zachariah mock-punched Castiel in the shoulder, nothing kind in the gesture. “As they say, all work and no play!”

Castiel didn’t respond as he was too busy scowling at the floor and clenching his fists.

As strangely as this little episode started, Zachariah suddenly said, “Well! I suppose I should be going. Nice to see you again, Castiel, keep up the good work, I’ll show myself out.” And with that parting shot, he sauntered straight out the door, his exit as sudden as his arrival.

Dean watched him go, mouth agape.

That episode felt completely random and bizarre, so it took Dean a while before he could manage an incredulous, “What the hell was that? Do you normally get random visitors out of freaking nowhere like…” He trailed off, noticing that Castiel had slumped against the counter. “Hey, you okay?”

Castiel mumbled something. His shoulders were trembling.

“Hey.” Dean chanced a step forward. “You say something?”

“I _said_ I hate this place,” Castiel snapped, knuckles pale where they clung tight to the counter behind him. His face was flushed red; he was shaking in anger _._ “I hate this house, I hate this town, I hate being stuck here like a — like an _invalid_.” He laughed, but the sound was broken, humorless.

“Oh.”

Dean stood back and took it all in.

He knew this much: Castiel had bristled at his suggestion of going to town personally, and as far as Dean knew, hadn’t been there at all. From the questions Dean still got occasionally at the store, he was still practically the only person in town who’d seen Castiel up close and personal. Even Janine’s welcome meatloaf had been met with a closed door, which had apparently rendered him dead, _dead I tell you_ , to their brand of Lawrence hospitality.

Zachariah’s barbs cut deeper than Dean could see.

In Dean’s book, Castiel was okay. He was just a little quiet, but not dangerous in the way that mattered. Dean’s people instincts were top-notch, which he liked to think he’d inherited from Mary because they’d never served him wrong.

“Are you agoraphobic?” Dean asked. When that got him a glare, he added, “I know it’s none of my business—”

“No.” Castiel brought himself up to his full height, chin jut out stubbornly. “It _is_ none of your business, and I don’t appreciate you making such accusations. I could leave this house if I wanted, you don’t—” In making a gesture his hand hit Zachariah’s glass, sending it flying.

It was just a glass, nothing important, but Castiel stared at the fallen pieces like they represented the state of his life. His face — already not that expressive to begin with — had gone eerily blank, like something had snapped out of place behind his eyes. He slowly slumped down to sit on the floor.

Dean searched the kitchen cabinets, finding a small broom and dust pan set that, like almost everything else in the house, was mostly new. He set to task cleaning up the pieces of broken glass, wrapping them up in some newspaper and putting them in the garbage.

Through it all, Castiel remained silent, face hidden behind his hands.

Once the clean up was done, Dean sat down next to Castiel. Not enough to touch, but certainly close enough that they could hear each other’s breathing.

Eventually Castiel said, voice a little muffled behind his fingers, “Who are you?”

“Dean,” he said. “Dean Winchester. I work at a — at my family’s hardware store which my parents started up when I was a kid.”

Castiel drew his hands down, letting them rest on his knees. He had long fingers, calloused and pale against the dark of his jeans. Solemn eyes turned to regard Dean, as if the next question would define everything: “Do you like it here, Dean Winchester?”

 _Yes_ , was the automatic answer on Dean’s tongue. He’d spent practically his entire life in Lawrence, his family was there (except Sam, who was away and making a new life elsewhere, and John , who’d moved out and would never stop betraying them), his fondest memories of youth and growing up were there, almost everyone he knew lived within fifteen miles. This was the place Dean had long ago figured he’d spend the rest of his days, and eventually die.

“I don’t really know anything else,” Dean ended up saying. “I travelled a little a while back, but none of it stuck. It’s not the same, anyway. Don’t know if that answers your question, but, yeah, this is it for me.”

“It must be nice,” Castiel said without sarcasm, “To know your place in the world like that.”

It was a strange thing to say, but Dean was too busy thinking about Castiel living like this, in a sanctuary that wasn’t even of his own making.

“Zach probably means well,” Dean said. “He sounds like he cares about you, even if he goes about it in a… fine, a douchey way. This is a nice place. Hell, _I’d_ stay here if I could afford it.”

“He’s the one paying for…” Castiel trailed off. “Never mind.”

“It’s cool,” Dean said, waving it off. “You’re doing a bang-up job with what you have, did I mention that? Because it is. I’m actually in the business, so I know what I’m talking about. But you know what’s _really_ important? Plumbing. How’s the plumbing?”

Castiel blinked rapidly, startled. “The plumbing’s… acceptable?”

“That is indeed excellent,” Dean said. “You know what else is important? Food.”

“I…” Castiel stared at him. “Food?”

“You need plenty of it.” Dean gestured over at the brand new fridge, which was humming along nicely. “Good to see you’re getting mileage out of that. Liz from the grocer’s helping you out?”

“And internet shopping,” Castiel said. “The internet has been a boon.”

“Okay, how about this.” Dean turned to face Castiel. He’d let the other man’s caution define how this was to go, and Dean figured that if his pushing wasn’t wanted, Castiel was more than capable of kicking him out on his ass. “I’ll call it a day for now, but I’ll be back to finish the rest.”

“If you like.”

“There’s a place in town that does great ribs,” Dean continued. “I can bring some over tomorrow with me. How about that?”

At first Castiel didn’t know what he was saying, but then surprise smoothed his face. Even this shallowest of gestures was something unexpected, and now Castiel cast new eyes upon Dean, understanding replacing through his previous suspicion.

“There are some other things that I may need help with,” Castiel said slowly, warming up to the idea. “Around the house.”

“Great idea,” Dean agreed. He pushed himself up and off the floor, ready to bow out and give Castiel his space. “So, we’ll call it a day, and I’ll see you again soon, Mr. Allen.”

“It’s not…” Castiel winced and ducked his head sheepishly. “Call me Castiel, please.”

“No prob, Castiel,” Dean said, enunciating the syllables of his name carefully. “You take care of yourself, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

For the briefest moment something that was almost a smile passed over Castiel’s face and Dean knew he’d done something right.

  


* * *

  
There were worse things in the world for Dean to do than spend a second afternoon in a row at the McArthur place.

As Dean expected, his arrival with a bag of Sean’s honey-roasted ribs was treated with apprehension until Castiel actually tried them and his eyes damn near rolled up into the back of his head. Dean made fun of him for doubting his taste, and was gratified to receive another mild glare from Castiel over a full fork.

“Eating for pleasure is something I rarely indulge in,” Castiel admitted, though he was not at all penitent as he licked his fork clean. “The preparation time alone…”

“Dude, cooking is so freaking satisfying, you don’t even know.” Dean regarded Castiel’s brightly-colored recipe books with all the skepticism they deserved. “It’s not just about throwing stuff on the fire, that’s like throwing all your tools in a mix and hoping it turns out okay. It’s about the individual parts and conditions and balances coming together just right and _then_ mixing ‘em up where they’re needed and then it’s… practically magic.”

Dean grinned, not at all bothered by the way Castiel had stared at him all the way through his rant of sheer mundane cheer. Castiel’s head was tilted in quiet contemplation and Dean decided that whatever mental image Castiel was developing of him in his head, it had to be an awesome one.

“How about I show you around?” Castiel said, once they were done. “You may give me advice on what else may be improved.”

“Sure, I’m game,” Dean said.

In touring the house beyond the kitchen, Dean quickly learned that what Castiel found acceptable wasn’t always the case, starting from the fact that the kitchen Dean had admired turned out to be the most visitor-friendly room in the house.

A man’s home was more than a place to sleep. Dean had a lot of opinions on this matter, and as he stood in the middle of the area that had been designed as the house’s living room, he gladly shared a whole bunch of them with Castiel.

“But I don’t need any of that,” Castiel protested. “I am one person and the ground floor is enough for my needs. Moving any of my things to the first floor would be unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?”

Dean reluctantly gave Castiel points for maximizing space use, since the living room had been converted into something not unlike a studio apartment, with a cot and personal items at one corner, a large table work station and computer at another, and absolutely nothing useless or personal littering up the place at all. In other words, nothing to indicate he was going to be there for anything longer than a brief sabbatical.

“It’s just—” Dean bit off the word _wrong_. “Cramped.”

“You say cramped, I say convenient,” Castiel retorted. “Everything I need is within my reach.”

“Okay, point.” Dean’s apartment was much smaller than Castiel’s house, and he was content with that. His apartment fit all of his things, was easy enough to maintain, and thanks to the status of his social life meant that he wouldn’t be hosting cocktail parties any time soon.

“Zachariah’s allowance is generous,” Castiel said, “But I would prefer not to dive into it too deeply.”

“I seriously doubt he’d mind if you got yourself some decent shelves. Just look at that.” He gestured at Castiel’s work station shelf, which was only chest high and already filled from end to end with books. “You seem like the kind of person who appreciates good organization.”

“I do.”

“Then, you need better shelves,” Dean said firmly. “And a decent bed, come on. If you can afford it, be kind to your goddamn back, okay?”

“Um.” Castiel eyed Dean apprehensively. “My back is fine?”

“Well, it is _now_ ,” Dean said, having no clue how bossy he sounded. “In ten years’ time? Twenty? Geez, really. Look, Cas, you do your own thing in here, right? Might as well make the place as comfortable for yourself, and for whatever it is you’re doing. Tell me that ain’t logical.”

“I…” Castiel shrugged, the thought never having occurred to him. “I suppose it could be beneficial if I were to make things a little nicer.”

“There you go,” Dean said, satisfied. “And how about you let me get you some chairs, and maybe a coffee table. Not fancy ones, just, you know, so that people other than you can sit in here.”

Castiel turned in a slow circle, observing his temporary home through someone else’s eyes. “That could be useful, but I don’t have… Oh.” He looked at Dean, his only visitor standing perfectly at ease in the middle of the living room. “Yes, I see.”

“Trust me, it’ll be great,” Dean said.

“Don’t you have work?” Castiel blurted out. “You run a store, you must have responsibilities.”

“I run it, yes, but it’s not like I’m manning the cash register,” Dean said. At the flash of irritation on Castiel’s face, Dean added, “I do this all the time, it’s no big. We’re a close little community, lots of people need help for small things, and if the store needs me for anything important, they know to call. Otherwise there’s, you know, the phone and the internet and stuff. I put in more hours than it might look.”

“But you…” Castiel trailed off uncertainly. If he were better at articulating what he wanted to know, he would’ve asked if Dean had a life, but as it were, he didn’t, and couldn’t. “I suppose you know better than I do. It’s your family business, I should respect that.”

“Thanks, that’s cool.”

“I do work for Zachariah in return for his sponsoring my stay here,” Castiel said, brushing off Dean’s protest that he didn’t need to know. “You may help me, but I will pay you back, as is right.”

“Sure.” Dean narrowed his eyes at Castiel. “Will you let me get you some decent cookbooks, too?”

Castiel sighed. “Why am I already regretting this decision?”

“Because you know it’s an awesome one,” Dean said. “So, yes or no?”

“Fine,” Castiel said, but his side-eye was less skeptical and more curious. “Though if I set my newly rehabilitated kitchen on fire, it’ll be your fault.”

Dean snickered. “I’ll take those odds.”

So one visit turned into another, Dean’s agenda shifting from dealing with Castiel’s garden to dealing with his furniture, to other new reasons he would need to come back again, and again, and again — from fixing cracks in the drywall, to minor retiling in the ground floor bathroom, to redoing the kitchen cabinets.

But those were just excuses.

The real point of all of this lay in the moments between, where Dean would take a break or share his food (eventually including some of Dean’s own concoctions), and say to Castiel, “Dude, take a breather, all that staring’s not gonna do anything good for your eyes.”

“I don’t need glasses,” Castiel would protest, but he’d still stop and leave his computer, if only for a little while. (Dean never asked about or tried to steal glances at Castiel’s work. He could tell that Castiel appreciated the gesture as he’d stopped trying to push his things away every time Dean drew close.)

Then they’d talk, conversation awkward and impersonal but not cold, Dean taking care not to wander where he wasn’t wanted. He learned things about Castiel anyway, such as how he liked chocolate but not strawberries, how he knew a couple of languages but refused to specify how many, and that he’d never seen a single _Star Trek_ film (that last part of which Dean set out to rectify immediately, starting up a fairly regular movie-night habit).

It was nice, in a way that merely being in another person’s company with no expectations was nice. Dean usually spent his free time alone in his apartment; this just meant a change of venue for when he wanted to catch up on his reading or whatever.

There were far worse things in the world that Dean could be doing.

  


* * *

  
“ _So, what’s going on with this Castiel guy?_ ”

“What?” Dean dropped the laundry he’d been sorting on to his bed. “How do you know about that?”

“ _Mom, dumbass_ ,” Sam said, in a such way that Dean could practically hear the eye roll. “ _She said you’ve skipped out on a couple of dinners to see that guy for whatever. I wasn’t even asking, but apparently she felt like sharing._ ”

“Nah, it’s just…” Dean tried to think of a way to shrink down the past couple of weeks into something that wasn’t fodder for immediate mockery. “He’s just some guy. A bit of a loner, but I don’t think it’s because he wants to be.”

“ _What do you guys do together?_ ”

“We chill.”

“ _Chill,_ ” Sam echoed flatly. “ _What, watching movies? Dr. Sexy?_ ”

“Believe it or not, Cas doesn’t have a TV,” Dean said, smiling at the thought. “He doesn’t see the point since he can watch whatever he wants to on his computer. Not that he watches much of anything for fun unless I suggest something. Though he’s started forwarding me youtube clips of puppies, I guess that’s a step in the right direction.”

“ _Do you guys go out_?”

It was an innocuous question in a series of innocuous questions, but this one made Dean pause. There was an undercurrent in Sam’s voice he hadn’t noticed earlier, his brother building up to a point. “No, he’s not into that. I just go to the house.”

“ _Oh, Dean_ ,” Sam said quietly.

“What?” Dean said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“ _No, Dean, I meant…_ ” There was another pause, as ominous as pebbles before an avalanche. “ _Is that really you?”_

Dean sat down abruptly, one hand clumsily shoving his pile of fresh-scented laundry aside. He knew that he should have seen this coming because this was Sam, and even hundreds of miles away, he would always be predictable. “I get what you’re trying to say—”

“ _It’s not right, Dean_ ,” Sam said, worried in a way even Mary and John hesitated to be around Dean. “ _I’m sorry I can’t be there, but you’ve got to know you can talk to me. Remember when Dad gave you the Impala and you made that promise to drive her into every State? What happened to that?_ ”

“What, a guy can’t take a break from a _break_ without someone getting on his case now?”

“ _Yeah, but it’s been — wow, it’s been over a year now, Dean. A year, and you’re still… there. Not going anywhere, not doing anything except running the store, spending time with Mom and now ‘hanging’ with this guy who’s apparently_ just like you? _When’s the last time you had fun? Gone out?”_

“Sam!” Dean barked. “I already have a mother. You might remember her, I think you’ve met.”

“ _Please, just — just listen, okay? Dean, I know you. You probably think you’re helping him. Just like you think you’re helping Mom.”_

“Don’t you bring Mom into this.”

“ _God, it’s true, isn’t it? It’s exactly like that. You think Mom wants this for you? You think she’s_ happy _that you feel you need to stay in Lawrence because of what’s going on with Dad?_ ”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _Don’t I_?” Sam said angrily. “ _Tell me that you’re not staying there because of Mom. Tell me that the reason you haven’t dropped the store and gone back on your damn road trip is because you think it’s your fault_.”

Dean’s head hurt.

“ _You’ve always been like this,_ ” Sam said, voice thick. “ _Your whole life you’ve been like this — with me, with just about everyone we’ve ever known — and it’s gotten worse since the accident, like, just because you got out of it okay, you owe the world something now. It’s not your job, Dean. You don’t have to take responsibility for other people’s problems._ ”

It wasn’t quite like that. Sam was very, _very_ close, but in this particular case he was just a little off the mark. Not that Dean was in any mood to explain.

“You’re happy where you are, Sam,” Dean said, proud of how much steel he put in his voice. “No one’s begging you to come back if you don’t want to. You _know_ that I respect your choice. So the least you can do is respect mine.”

“ _Dean…_ ”

“I can’t talk to you like this.” Dean was thankful for small favors, such as not being able to see Sam’s face at that moment. “I know you mean well, but you don’t know shit.”

“ _You think it’s okay to spend time with this Castiel out of pity? Is that really fair to him, Dean?_ ”

“It isn’t—” Dean shuddered, bile in his mouth. The thing with Castiel wasn’t pity. Dean knew what pity tasted like. “I’m hanging up now.”

Sam sighed but didn’t argue, remaining silent while Dean ended the call.

Dean sat back, jaw tight, and cast his gaze around his apartment. It was usually a place of pride and comfort, every corner of it having something of his personality embedded in it, but at that moment, it felt smaller and more cramped than it usually was. This was Dean’s life, four corners in an apartment in Lawrence, while his brother was busy doing things and being someone.

Dean grabbed the TV remote and turned the volume up loud. Then he started sorting his laundry in earnest, glad to have something to keep himself occupied.

  


* * *

  
“Hey,” Dean said when Castiel opened the door. “I, uh… baked.”

Castiel looked thrilled, which is to say, his eyes widened a fraction.

“It’s my Mom’s recipe.” Dean pushed the container towards Castiel, who took it and wandered over to the kitchen table while Dean closed the door behind them. “She made me learn how to make it myself when I wouldn’t stop bugging her about it. This one’s blueberry, by the way.”

The container tilted dubiously as Castiel studied its contents. “I concede to your knowledge on the value of taste and aroma, but the nutritional value of this is suspect.”

“Suspect away, Cas,” Dean said. His efforts to expand Castiel’s culinary education would not be denied, even if it was a testament to Dean’s life that he’d come to visit with guilt-baked goods.

“Dean?” Castiel paused in the act of cutting the pie, watching him. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean said automatically.

Castiel nodded, and set about getting some plates out. Dean left him to it, wandering further in dropping into his regular chair, which was positioned at an angle from Castiel’s computer desk and had somewhere over the past couple of weeks developed an indentation of Dean’s ass.

“Thanks,” he said, when Castiel put a plate in his hands. “Though I can already give you an in-depth review on how it actually tastes.”

“Let me guess,” Castiel said, “Awesome?”

“Got it in one.”

They ate in silence for a while. This in itself wasn’t unusual for them, but typically Dean would not be scowling at his plate, or Castiel concerned as to why Dean hadn’t yet made an easy-going quip or tried to convince Castiel to try something new.

“You can tell me, if you want,” Castiel said. “There was no need to bribe me with pastry, though I do appreciate the effort.”

Dean snorted, unsurprised by Castiel’s directness. He could be oblique at times but frighteningly sharp at others, though one thing that had always remained constant was their caution of each other’s boundaries. Dean would never push Castiel to unearth what he didn’t want to share, the man having obviously come to Lawrence for reasons of his own that weren’t Dean’s business (yet).

The odd thing was — and Dean was only just at that moment realizing it — the peace Castiel had found for himself at the McArthur house, Dean had been sharing in as well. It was nice up there, and not as inexplicably claustrophobic everywhere else could be at times, with other people’s well-meaning questions twisting things just a little bit tighter.

Thanks to the phone call with Sam, Dean now knew that his brother harbored the impression that Dean was there, at least partially, out of pity for Castiel and his condition. But to Dean, between the two of them Castiel wasn’t the one to be pitied.

“I had an argument with my brother yesterday.” Dean set his plate down on the table. “Nothing big, just… you know, throwing words. But it still wasn’t fun.”

Castiel considered Dean’s statement with his typical brand of gravity. “Your brother loves you.” He’d come to that natural conclusion from the stories of Sam that Dean had so far shared with him. “Whatever the topic may be, the conflict would have come from his concern of you, and you of him.” That was an opening, Castiel’s calm expression an unspoken _hit me_ , as if there was anything Dean could possibly say to shock someone who had no context.

“My parents are separated.” Dean swallowed around a too-tight throat. “It’s just one of a lot of things going on, but that’s the main… thing. My father had an affair. It was a while back, during one of the times that my parents were having trouble, and a…” he choked, the words sour in his mouth, “…a kid came out of it.”

Castiel put his own plate down, all of his attention now on Dean.

“He didn’t tell us for a long time, but, recently, we found out,” Dean said. “There was a huge blowout. The only thing I can be grateful for is that Sam wasn’t here when it happened. He was angry enough when I told him about it on the phone.”

“You were here,” Castiel pointed out. “Weren’t you angry?”

“Sure I was,” Dean said, startled. “But that’s my parent’s marriage, right? I’m just their son.”

“So you don’t care what happens to them?”

“Of course I care!” Dean snapped. Castiel remained unfazed by his outburst, watching Dean pensively as he ran a frustrated hand over his face. “You can’t just say shit like that, Cas. Of course I fucking care what happens, don’t you dare suggest that I don’t. But it’s not my place to get in between.”

Castiel regarded him. “And Sam would?”

“Yeah,” Dean said reluctantly. “Maybe… I don’t know. He’s got opinions and ain’t afraid to tell them to anyone.”

“Ah,” Castiel murmured in revelation. “That’s why you’re upset about an argument you had with him. He had opinions, and he told them to you.”

There Castiel was, sitting across from Dean and listening to him attentively, as if every single thing that came out of Dean’s mouth was worth listening to. It was novel, disconcerting, aggravating and — once Dean noticed how the clench in his chest was starting to unwind — a relief.

“Sometimes I just get so angry, and I just wish…” Dean took a steadying breath. “Sometimes I wish it could go back to when it was good. When Sam was here and he thought that Lawrence was the whole world. When Mom and Dad were… not like this.”

Even as he said it, Dean knew it was bullshit. Sam had always looked to greater things, which was only right because if anyone deserved greater things, it was him. As for John and Mary, they’d had their problems for almost as long as Dean could remember — though ‘problems’ was a poor descriptor for their passionate, volatile relationship. Dean’s memory was faulty, lingering on the good and discarding the cracks in between.

“I admire that,” Castiel said.

“What?”

“Your deeply-rooted concern for your family.” Castiel was studying him again, but Dean had gotten used to it and by now even expected this level of scrutiny. “I’ve seen affection and caring, but your dedication is… different, somehow. I can hear it in the way you speak, see it in the way your face changes, as if there’s no pride greater in the world to have such a family.”

Dean was unsure what the appropriate response was to such a statement.

“I hope they know you care for them this much,” Castiel added, a stern edge in his tone. “It would be a shame if they didn’t.”

Dean’s mouth opened to righteously defend them but he found himself pausing, uncertain.

Mary certainly knew, John understood in his way, and Sam was attentive enough to read between the lines. They weren’t a perfect family but they could be so much worse. Though it had been a while since all of them had been in the same room together, that was an ache Dean could dismiss for the moment. They were salvageable, manageable, and words weren’t as important as actions.

When Dean caught Castiel’s wistful expression, a thought occurred. “Do you have family, Cas?”

“This isn’t about me, Dean,” Castiel said. “I’d love to know more about yours.”

“So you won’t tell me anything?” Dean hadn’t meant for that to come out bitter, but even respectful boundaries could be stifling.

So, naturally, Castiel surprised him by saying, “My family kicked me out.”

Dean stared. “Oh.”

“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel said. “You don’t need to feel sorry for me.”

The advice came too late, because Dean’s thoughts were already careening down that path: Castiel’s family, his own flesh and blood, had thrown him out. They’d discarded one of their own, forcibly removing him from their lives, and by choice _._

For all that Dean hated the fighting and the yelling and the Cold Wars in between, he couldn’t imagine not having Mary, John and Sam in his life at all.

Just the thought of it was—

“Dean.”

—incomprehensible.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean jumped. Castiel had moved clear across the room, his hand on Dean’s arm and worry breaking the usual placid calm of his face. Dean had the slightly hysterical thought how hilarious it was that his not-real problems could compare with Castiel’s.

“Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean said.

“What for?” Castiel said, irritated and worried at the same time. “You had nothing to do with it.”

Dean made a face at him. “It’s an expression of sympathy.”

“That is unnecessary,” Castiel said, exasperated. “I doubt I’ll ever stop missing my home, but I can’t exactly long for the company of those who threw me out. _You’ve_ shown me more kindness and you barely even know me.”

“Aww, shucks,” Dean muttered.

“It’s not flattery, it’s simple fact,” Castiel said firmly, daring Dean to declare otherwise. “Regardless. You have a wonderful family, Dean. No matter how difficult you think it is now, it isn’t. Not when you know in that all of you still love each other underneath the bullshit.” He turned away, sighing a little. “I envy that a great deal.”

Dean swallowed, throat clicking dryly. After a few false starts, he managed to say, “Better finish that pie. I slaved on that, you know.”

Castiel smiled. “Of course, Dean.”

  


* * *

  
It had become a normal part of Dean’s routine that, at around 3-4 o’clock on his working day, he’d start wondering what to do for the day’s dinner. Either he’d cook, or buy something, or call Castiel to let him know it was his turn to be creative. Maybe Dean would bring a movie over, or try to convince Castiel to give Risk another chance (Castiel didn’t do well with board games as he had a competitive streak that could rival Sam’s).

Dean was in his store thinking precisely about those things when an unfamiliar young woman walked up to his counter. He always noticed new faces, and in this case said unfamiliar face had a bright smile that automatically called up a responding smile of Dean’s own.

“Hi,” she said. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

“Sure, you looking for something?” Dean said.

“Kinda.” Her eyes were bright with speculation, and she was twirling a strand of her blonde hair around a finger. “But I was wondering more like… maybe you could tell a girl if there are any places to have a little fun around here?”

Dean grinned, flattered. Of course he was flattered, here was a young woman with beautiful eyes and an infectious smile being bold as brass, and he could barely remember the last time he’d gotten scoped. Still, it was easy as pie for him to turn on the old charm.

“A guy could know a couple of places,” Dean said, relaxing into a slouch against the counter. “You passing through?”

“Yeah.” She canted her head just so, a touch of wickedness at the corner of her smile, the girl knowing exactly what she was doing. “The name’s Jo.”

“Mine’s Dean.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” she said. Her directness was refreshing, and made Dean think of good memories from when he had been more adventurous, willing to go anywhere and try almost anything new for the sake of it.

It had been so much fun that Dean had thought it’d never end, that he’d always be like that: invincible and awesome forever.

“Sure, I can—” Dean stopped.

He had plans. He was going to Castiel’s that night, as he’d been going every other night. They weren’t cool plans, but they were still plans.

Jo was watching him expectantly. She was gorgeous, friendly, only passing through, and perfect. In Dean’s head he could hear Sam’s admonishment that he hadn’t done anything fun lately, and for all that Dean wanted to squirm and say that fun was subjective, he knew what Sam was talking about. Sam was talking about _before_ , when Dean’s brand of fun had its distinct flavor and didn’t involve being a fucking hermit, and where he hadn’t ventured since the accident made him lose the taste for driving and other things.

Dean was lost in thought long enough that Jo pulled back. “Oh, I’m sorry, if you’re not interested…”

“It’s nothing personal,” Dean said apologetically. “It’s just…”

“It’s okay.” Jo winked at him anyway, not offended. “It happens.”

“There’s a bar ‘bout two and a half miles down that way,” Dean said, pointing. “Callaway’s. It only picks up around 10, but you should check it out.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that.” Jo cast him one last sun-bright smile before saying goodbye and moving away from the counter.

Tiff was on Dean in a heartbeat, leaping out from her hiding place with no subtlety whatsoever. “I don’t believe you!” she exclaimed. “You turned her down? What’s _wrong_ with you?”

It was friendly teasing but the crucial phrasing — _what’s wrong with you_ — set Dean’s teeth on edge.

“You don’t get to comment, and don’t you have something to do?” Dean didn’t usually pull the boss card like that, so Tiff took the hint and slinked off, casting the evil eye at Juan and Mickey so they knew not to pick up the slack where she’d left off.

Dean watched as Jo got into her car and drove off, and realized that he wasn’t at all sorry that he’d turned her down. What he _did_ feel sorry for was the gnawing in his gut that this was Castiel’s fault.

Oh, Castiel had never _asked_ for Dean’s time. That was entirely Dean’s doing; he was the one who decided to make Castiel’s new life in Lawrence comfortable, and took payment for services rendered by borrowing a little bit of that comfort. If Dean ever canceled on Castiel or started doing other things, Castiel wouldn’t have minded.

Yet the fact remained that a girl as attractive as Jo had come into Dean’s store, and if it had happened one or two months earlier, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

So this was Castiel’s fault.

In Dean’s mind, the only way to deal with that was to face it head-on. That meant keeping the night’s appointment at Castiel’s place, this time armed with something more than a blueberry pie.

Only, when Dean got there after logging off from work, Castiel wasn’t alone. The kitchen door was open, as usual, but as he marched up to it he could hear raised voices inside.

“I’ve given you everything and this is how you repay me?” Zachariah was yelling.

Castiel replied a defense, though Dean couldn’t make out the words.

“No!” Zachariah shouted. “You don’t talk to me like that! You _owe_ me, Castiel, and I deserve to get something back…” He trailed off when he noticed Dean in the doorway, his expression shifting into something more pleasant. “Hello… Wesson, was it? Or some other brand, I always confuse them.”

Over Zachariah’s shoulder, Castiel was glaring a hint at Dean to get the hell away.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean stepped into the house with all the confidence of someone assured of his welcome. “Didn’t know you had a party going on tonight.”

Zachariah guffawed. “Where _did_ you find this one?”

“He’s a friend, Zachariah,” Castiel said, polite but with a quiet warning. “He’s been very helpful.”

“Not that I have any idea _why_!” Zachariah shouted, hand deliberately slamming into a bowl on the counter and sending it falling to the floor. He shot an impatient scowl at Dean and for a moment he wasn’t just a dick with a receding hairline but someone far more dangerous. “You’re wasting my time. You’re an ungrateful, useless little waste of space who is _this_ close to making me regret ever bothering with you. Get me something I can use, or I’m throwing you back to where I found you.”

Dean watched, speechless with disbelief yet again, as Zachariah strut out the door.

“Why do you let him talk to you like that?” Dean asked. “I know you can stand up for yourself. Why do you take it?”

“It’s his house, Dean,” Castiel sighed, dropping down to the floor to clean up the mess. His shoulders were drooped with resignation, body language all tight like the last time Dean had been around for Zachariah’s visit. “You know that I work for him.”

“Then stop,” Dean said. When Castiel glanced at him dubiously, he added, “I have employees of my own, you know. Being their boss don’t give you the right to talk to them like they’re less than human.”

“I think it does, in this case.”

Dean stared at Castiel’s hands, now moving steadily in wiping up the spilled chilli. They were elegant hands, and he’d seen them dance across a keyboard and slide across pages and gesture wildly whenever Dean had been successful in provoking him about something or the other. Now they were cleaning up Zachariah’s mess, as though that were all they were worthy of doing.

He could feel his irritation boil over into actual anger. Castiel — stubborn, sharp, frank Castiel — turned meek when faced down by Zachariah, and that didn’t sit well with Dean. How could it, when it made him wonder about the hold Zachariah had over him.

“I don’t get you,” Dean said. “I don’t get this. I don’t get any of this.”

Castiel shrugged helplessly, still scrubbing the floor. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You could…” Dean trailed off, hands clenching around air. “You could so something.” That came out poorly, and Dean realized that what he really wanted to do was demand that Castiel _tell him how to help_. But to do that would be to ask for things Dean had no right to have.

Realization winded him, making Dean exhale with surprise.

He’d come here to understand, and now he did. Dean thought back to the sheer joy he’d had the few times he’d been able to steal a smile from Castiel, convince Castiel to try one of his suggestions, to make Castiel treat his house as more of a home. He should have known that each of those rewards would only make him greedier for more.

And now what Dean wanted was the rest of the gaps in his knowledge filled. He wanted to know Castiel, in ways the other man wasn’t yet prepared for.

Castiel was watching him. “Dean—”

“I’m going home.” Dean winced, he didn’t meant for it come out that harsh. “Look, I just… I’ll see you later, Cas, okay?” He made a swift exit, and attempted to ignore the worried frown of Castiel’s face as he watched him go.

  


* * *

  
Dean’s thoughts settled somewhat by the time he arrived back home.

There was some mail waiting for him, so that gave him something to do for a few minutes, sorting them into piles of bills, rubbish and other. Following that was the difficult task of deciding what to have for dinner, since the original plan of drumming something up at Castiel’s place has fallen through. Dean ended up nuking some leftovers from the most recent dinner at Mary’s, and then settled in.

The television was left on for noise — the newscaster was only going on about out-of-season tornados — while Dean’s mind meandered elsewhere.

He thought about Mary, who’d always kept to herself and had never wanted to worry her boys when things got tough. He thought about John, who’d always tried so hard except when he didn’t, and how Dean’d always had the vague feeling that he’d let him down somehow. He thought about Sam, who he still hadn’t talked to because he knew Dean too well, and knew where Dean didn’t want him to pry.

Then there was the inexplicable Castiel Allen, who’d come out of nowhere and had, over a few weeks, earned bits and pieces of that picture of Dean’s life. All of them had been freely given, though Dean had barely gotten anything in return.

“Well, shit,” Dean muttered.

He had just finished dinner and was washing the dishes when he saw it. The window above the sink overlooked the street outside the apartment; there was movement outside the window, and the movement was Castiel.

Castiel, who was approaching in a straight line for the Impala parked down below.

For a second Dean thought that he was hallucinating, but then again, he would’ve hallucinated Castiel wearing something better than an ill-fitting windbreaker of dubious color and design. When it became apparent that this was reality and that really was Castiel standing next to the Impala, Dean dropped what he was doing to rush outside.

He was only a little breathless by the time he got out the apartment’s front doors. “Cas.”

Castiel looked up guiltily from where he had been studying the Impala. “I asked them at the store where you lived,” he said quickly. “They gave me your address, but only after I explained who I was. I doubt a stranger would have been able to get your home address so easily, if that’s an issue.”

Dean tried to picture Castiel walking into Winchester Hardware and explaining himself in his solemn, matter-of-fact way. He tried, and couldn’t.

“You’re out of the house,” Dean said.

“Yes.” Castiel was unable to completely hide the anxiety under his words. “I never said I couldn’t. I just don’t like to.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Right. So, uh, you want to come in?”

Once inside the apartment, Castiel shed his jacket to Dean’s hands and studied the interior with interest. Dean watched as Castiel curiously took in Dean’s not-as-oft-used home entertainment system, the jacket slung across the back of the couch, the DVDs strewn across the table, the books lined, not all that neatly, on the shelves — pieces of Dean’s personality, now Castiel’s to learn.

“Am I interrupting something?” Castiel asked when he spotted the mess in the kitchen.

“Nah, I was just cleaning up.” Now that Dean’s surprise had passed, he found himself relieved, even pleased, to have Castiel here. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to,” Castiel said, with just a touch of haughtiness. “You were angry at me. I didn’t like it.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a tremendous deal,” Castiel corrected him. “You have... helped me in ways that you’ll never know and it wouldn’t be right if I repaid that by making you unhappy.”

For all that Dean had gotten used to Castiel’s leaps of logic, this was a new one. “Friendship isn’t about payment, Cas.” Except that it was, and Castiel was right. All relationships are about payment, one way or another.

“Dean.” Castiel stood in front of him, hands clasped and ready. Dean leaned against the back ot the couch, ready to listen. Castiel took a deep breath and said, “I used to be homeless. It was unpleasant.”

The declaration was simple, matter-of-fact. Dean tried to treat the information as such in his head, even as his thoughts skittered away from the horror of imagining Castiel on the streets.

“When your family kicked you out?” Dean asked.

“Yes.” Castiel’s mouth curved unhappily at the memory, but there was no shame in his confession. “I was ill-equipped to care for myself, as I had no safety net beyond the security of my previous lifestyle. If I were cleverer, perhaps, I would have been able to do something with myself, but… such is life.”

“Then Zachariah found you,” Dean said, slowly understanding.

“Indeed,” Castiel said. “I wasn’t homeless for very long, you must understand. A year, maybe. There were those who were kind enough to enable my ongoing survival, but then I fell sick. Pneumonia, mostly, and I would have died had Zachariah not showed me… compassion.”

Dean caught the way Castiel’s expression twitched, the reluctant use of the word ‘compassion’ betraying how Castiel had been unable to think of one more appropriate. That in mind, Dean thought back to how he’d seen Castiel react to Zachariah. His compliance hadn’t come out of respect.

Then Dean understood. “You hate that you owe him.”

Castiel jerked, surprised by the accuracy of Dean’s conclusion. “Yes, I do. I know that he’s using me, and that I am an investment. But I owe him my life.”

Dean snorted softly. “That sucks.”

“Yes, it does,” Castiel said distantly.

Dean’s immediate inclination was to ask how Castiel could break free from that obligation, but he held back, deciding it wasn’t the time for that. Castiel’s sharing that piece of history wasn’t for Dean’s benefit. It was for _their_ benefit, the first step towards meeting somewhere in the middle, and Dean felt a surge of hope. Castiel was in Dean’s space willingly, sharing a part of him, and saying a simple _thank you_ just didn’t seem enough.

“I’ve achieved my goal.” Castiel nodded to himself, content. “Now I may go home.”

“There’s no rush.” It meant something that Castiel had come out to find him, and Dean wanted to milk it for everything it was worth. He walked over to the couch, gesturing for Castiel to do the same. “It’s not often you get a change of scenery.”

“I hitched a ride on the main road.” Castiel sat down on the couch, and Dean felt another rush of simple pleasure at Castiel’s brief, impressed pause, running his hands over the soft material. “Though you were right, it’s not that far a walk from the house.”

It was like a smack in Dean’s face, how good Castiel looked sitting on his couch. It was as though he’d always belonged there, a Castiel-shaped hole waiting to be filled. The backdrop of Dean’s apartment definitely suited him better than the sparse, unsentimental nest he’d made for himself at the McArthur house, though Dean understood the reasons for that now. Castiel had lost his home and, in the wake of that disappointment, discarded the idea of making a new home for himself.

But Dean wanted that to change.

“Dean?” Castiel said quietly.

It was a natural thing for Dean to lean in, Castiel’s body relaxed and curved in trust towards Dean’s. Castiel had made a decision when he’d come to see Dean, and following that decision was the inevitably of this.

Castiel made a small noise when their mouths met, but he didn’t pull away.

It had been coming to this, Castiel’s body warm against Dean’s, his breath whisper-light on Dean’s skin. It made sense for Dean to slot their lips together, then press and lick his way into Castiel’s mouth, swallowing the soft moan let loose from Castiel’s throat.

A small push had Castiel falling gently backwards on to the couch, leaving space for Dean to climb on top of him. Castiel made faint sounds at everything Dean did, though Dean was able to focus through the distraction, stroking his hands over Castiel’s arms, down the sides of his body, over the curve of his hips. It didn’t matter that Castiel didn’t know what to do, for Dean still liked the way Castiel’s fingers danced restlessly over his arms and shoulders, craving skin contact.

“Dean.” Castiel pressed clumsy kisses to his mouth and cheek and chin. “Dean, Dean.”

“You wanna…” Dean pulled back just far enough to appreciate the lazy haze that clouded over Castiel’s eyes. “You want to take it to the bedroom?”

The answer was yes. Castiel gave it in words but also in touch, pulling Dean’s hand as they stumbled their way across the apartment, and then pulling at Dean’s clothes where they kept him from his goal.

Dean had expected Castiel to be thin from the way his clothes fell on his frame, but once the clothes were off Dean learned that he also had angular shoulders and awkward knees and dark nipples that tasted good on Dean’s tongue. There were Band-Aids over some of Castiel’s toes but a soft whisper of _frostbite_ stopped Dean from asking any further. He focused instead on how Castiel’s skin was smooth in places and rough in others, and how his calloused fingers made Dean’s spine tingle when Castiel dragged them across his back.

The sex that followed was slow and hot, Dean glad to take his time because of how obvious it was that Castiel was new to this. Dean slowly kissed his way across Castiel’s body, sampling from his neck, shoulders, chest and stomach before moving down taking his cock into his mouth. Once there, Dean sucked firmly, eager to learn how Castiel’s groans changed in length and volume whenever he did something clever.

Castiel watched Dean get to work, but he also kept touching Dean, his fascinated fingers brushing over Dean’s cheeks, eyebrows, the tip of his nose, his lips where they were taut around his cock. Dean almost purred at the touch, but he didn’t like that Castiel was still coherent enough to do that, so he pulled back briefly to take a breath, and swallowed down.

That finally got the reaction Dean wanted, Castiel bucking up into his mouth and choking.

“Oh, dear God,” Castiel gasped, hips moving upwards to drive himself deeper into the pleasure of Dean’s mouth. Dean chuckled low in his throat, happy to keep up and take all he could. Castiel kept moaning, keening and biting off half-formed words until Dean finally got him to the threshold and all those noises stopped for a silent scream.

Dean let Castiel’s cock go and then fumbled for his own erection, tugging it quickly to ride the high of seeing Castiel fall apart. Just a few strokes and he was coming as well, choking out a curse as he spilled all over his hand.

When Dean’s head finally cleared, he found that he’d gotten what he’d wanted: Castiel’s smile lighting up his entire face, open and honest and full of wonder. Castiel’s hand was stroking Dean’s temple, as though to make sure Dean was real.

“Hey,” Dean murmured, crawling up the bed. He grabbed some tissues on the way to clean himself, but only managed a cursory wipe before Castiel’s hands were on him and pulling.

“Dean,” Castiel said, which was all the warning Dean got before Castiel claimed his mouth with his own. He kissed like he did just almost everything else: full of intent and concentration, for to give anything less was unthinkable. Dean laughed into it but kissed back, not at all surprised that Castiel had decided to maul his mouth _after_ getting his orgasm. It was like a good meal after a fast or a warm blanket after being out in the cold, Castiel previously touch-starved and making up for it now.

Dean understood. “Stay.”

Castiel touched the sides of their noses together. “Yes.”

There was an unused toothbrush Castiel could use, and he didn’t mind wearing Dean’s clothes to sleep in. In fact, Dean quite liked seeing his shirt on Castiel’s slim torso, and happily stole a grope when they eventually made themselves comfortable under his covers.

“I like your apartment,” Castiel said, turning on his side to face Dean. “It’s better than I imagined.”

“Of course it’d be,” Dean replied. “It’s mine.”

Castiel reached out to touch Dean’s mouth curiously, thumb dragging across his lower lip. “You have so much life.”

“That’s a good thing, I hope.”

“Of course,” Castiel said, but he was frowning. “But why…? Never mind.”

“What?” Dean poked Castiel’s stomach, grinning when Castiel glared. “C’mon, what?”

Castiel came on his closer, pushing a hand under Dean’s shirt since he was still on his mission to touch Dean as much as possible. “You’re a person who can do things. You’ve got so much to share, yet you’re…” He dropped his gaze guiltily. “It’s not my place, I’m sorry.”

Dean grabbed Castiel’s hand before he could pull it away. “I tried a couple of things. A couple of different jobs, places, whatever. None of it stuck, so what can you do? Besides, the store needs me.”

“The store,” Castiel echoed.

“Shut up,” Dean said, shoving lightly at Castiel’s shoulder. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Castiel said agreeably. He slid even closer to Dean’s side, pushing his leg between Dean’s and unabashedly making himself comfortable in the warmth of Dean’s body. “This is nice. I think this is the nicest thing we’ve done.”

“You make the weirdest pillow talk,” Dean observed.

“Weird is relative.” Castiel’s eyes drooped to half mast, hand still stroking idly over Dean’s stomach. “Or we could have sex again.”

Dean leered at him. “Yeah, we could do that.”

Castiel’s eyes glittered with subtle mischief, and then they were kissing again. It had been a while for Dean and a first for Castiel entirely, so it was easy to fit their bodies together in new arousal. They rubbed against each other languidly, kissing until Dean’s jaw started to ache and he had to pull away to ask, “Do you want to fuck me?”

Castiel shuddered. “Show me how.”

He was methodical. Castiel liked manuals as though they were more trustworthy than instinct, but in this case his manual was Dean. He listened, followed, touched and opened Dean where instructed, and then pushed into him with all the focus Dean could bear.

Every push in and drag out of Castiel’s cock lit fire under Dean’s skin, slowly and steadily driving him out of his mind. Castiel kept changing angles and moving Dean around carefully, experimental with sex as he was with everything else new to him until Dean ended up on his hands and knees. Satisfied with this position, Castiel drove into him from behind, each measured thrust making Dean keen and claw against the sheets. He shamelessly pushed back to get Castiel in deeper, growling victoriously when Castiel’s cock found his prostate.

“Oh, God, Cas, yeah,” Dean groaned. He leaned his weight on to his arm and spread his legs further, giving Castiel more space to settle against him. “Right there, right there, _oh fuck_ , yes, right there, come on, give it to me.”

Castiel was panting at the back of his neck, grunting with the effort of keeping it together while sheathed in Dean’s body. He just managed to hold on to his control, fucking Dean without pause until Dean finally ran out of voice to beg. Then there was just the mercy of Castiel’s cock filling him up, and Castiel’s hand jerking him off.

 _Fuck_ didn’t even begin to cover it, Dean thought, once he was capable of coherent thought.

Castiel had no complaints about being left to clean-up, following Dean’s grunted instructions to fetch a wet cloth from the bathroom. Dean lay there, content and exhausted in the best way, and remained unmoving even when Castiel pulled the blankets over them and draped an arm across Dean’s chest. The casual press of Castiel’s chin against Dean’s shoulder felt good.

At that moment, Dean felt he could do anything. Or say anything.

“Earlier.” Dean cleared his throat, surprised by the low rasp of his voice. “Earlier, you were asking me why.”

Castiel made a soft noise of acknowledgement, fingers toying idly with Dean’s hair.

“To be honest I’m pretty happy with what I’ve got. I know I’ve got it good, and I’m grateful. But sometimes it’s just…” Dean shrugged. “I know it’s stupid but I’ve always thought that everyone has to have a reason for existing.”

“It’s not stupid,” Castiel disagreed. “We all look for purpose in our lives. That’s normal.”

“I tried things, Cas, I really did. But now I’m almost thirty and I wonder… is this it? Which is, God, so fucking stupid. Not everyone’s meant to be a rocket scientist or a brain surgeon. I know I’m not a waste of space, but…” He took a deep breath and glanced down; Castiel was watching him intently. “I was in an accident. No one’s fault but mine. Crashed the Impala into a tree. Rebuilt her myself, after.”

Castiel’s eyes were wide. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks, but the point is…” Dean licked his lips, testing out the confession in his head. “Sam thinks that made me like you. You don’t want out of your house, I don’t want out of this town. But it’s not like that. I got a second chance. It was a million to one, winner takes all, and afterwards all I could think was, why me? Why should I walk away from that?”

Castiel scowled faintly. “It’s not a matter of should, Dean.”

“Do you believe in God?” Dean asked. “Or fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it?”

“Yes,” Castiel answered.

“Well, if there is something like that out there,” Dean said carefully, “Then I must’ve survived for a reason. I’m meant to do something. And it’s as if everything’s stopped because I’m waiting for that. Just sitting on my ass waiting for somethingthat only exists in my head.”

“Might exist,” Castiel corrected. “Something that _might_ only exist in your head. You don’t know for sure, Dean. None of us do. Isn’t that what life’s all about?”

“Wanting answers we may never get?” Dean asked wryly. “Sure.”

Castiel fell silent. He was still awake but, when Dean looked, his eyes were distant and his mind far away.

Dean closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, lulled to slumber by Castiel’s steady breaths.

It felt like barely any time had passed when Dean stirred awake suddenly, Castiel’s hand pressing insistently on his chest. He blinked, groggy and grumpy at the disturbance. The digital clock told him it was barely sunrise, yet Castiel was wide awake and watching Dean with far too alert eyes.

“You goin’ back?” Dean asked blearily.

“You have no scars.” Castiel’s hand pressed firmer on Dean’s chest, anxiety in the way his fingers curled into Dean’s shirt. “You said you were in an accident, that it was severe enough that you had to rebuild your car. Why do you not have any scars?’

“Dang it, Cas.” Dean tried to turn away, annoyed that he had to have a lucid conversation at the ass-crack of dawn. “Not now.”

“How can you not have any scars _?_ ” Castiel hissed. “Dean, when did the accident happen? Was it near here? Dean? _Dean_.”

Dean rolled over and went back to sleep.


	2. Act Two

Castiel was long gone by the time Dean woke up. As Dean didn’t know that yet, he stirred awake slowly and was bewildered by the soreness in certain parts of his body. When he remembered who’d caused them, he jerked up. “Cas?”

Dean forced his crusty eyes open wide, confirming that he was the only one in the room and that the only clothes strewn around were his own. This didn’t alarm Dean, who thought it natural that Castiel would want to go back to the house.

Dean lay back down and breathed against the pillow, cataloguing each and every ache in his arms, back and thighs. He could still feel Castiel’s phantom touch on his skin, so he brought the memory with him into the shower to settle his morning hard-on.

It was a Saturday, so Dean went through his mental check-list for the day: drop by the store, finish up the chores he’d been procrastinating on, drop by his parents’ house to pick up some things, and then go to Castiel’s.

But first thing’s first. After chowing down a cursory breakfast of toast and orange juice, Dean made the call. “Hey, you up?”

“ _Hate,_ ” Sam groaned. “ _So much._ ”

“Another late night at the office, huh?” Dean snickered. “Sorry for the wake-up call.”

“ _Bwuh – hey,_ ” Sam’s voice sharpened, suddenly fully awake. “ _Anything going on? You okay? Is mom okay_?”

“Yeah, everyone’s fine.” Dean scowled. “What’s up?”

Sam murmured softly to Jess, assuring her that this was only a lesser emergency and she needn’t get up. Dean waited until Sam moved to another room and said in his normal voice, “ _There’s been that bad storm in Stillwater the past couple of days. I checked the news before I went to bed, they said it wasn’t moving, but..._ ”

“Nah, we’re good.” Dean tugged his curtains aside and sure enough, the sun was bright and the sky clear. “I bet you’d know before we do if there’s something coming.”

“ _I guess_ ,” Sam said hesitantly. “ _Dean, I’ve got to—_ ”

“Sam,” Dean cut in. He shut his eyes, picturing Sam’s face in all of its earnest confusion. “You know you’re important, right? The only reason I let you get away with saying shit is because you’re my brother, so you get to do that, no matter how annoying you are.”

“ _Damn it, Dean, what did you do_?”

“What?” Dean asked. “You’re not the only one who gets to say stupid shit?”

Sam sighed a warning.

“Look, man, I got laid last night so I’m in a good mood and you get to deal with it.” Dean cackled at Sam’s sputter of disbelief. “We good?”

“ _Hardly_ ,” Sam said, though what that really meant was _always_. “ _You know this just means I’m going to be all annoying_ in your face _the next time me and Jess come by?_ ”

Dean grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Hey, I got to go, there’s stuff I have to do.”

“ _It’s good to hear you, Dean_ ,” Sam said, voice gone low and soft. “ _And, uh, congrats?_ ”

“I’ll tell Cas you said hi,” Dean said, well aware that he sounded obscenely cheerful. “I think you’ll like him.”

“ _Whoa, Cas?_ ” Sam’s surprise was genuine. “ _As in, that Castiel guy? Huh._ ”

“Exactly,” Dean replied, already thinking how hilarious it would be to have Sam, Jess and Castiel in the same room together. “’Kay, you go get your beauty sleep.”

“ _Sure. Take care of yourself, Dean._ ”

This conversation was enough for now, one vital item scratched off Dean’s To Do list. He felt lighter already, though his foolish grin of accomplishment faltered when he glanced at his cell and noticed that while he’d been on the call with Sam, a text message had come through.

ZACHARIAH IS KEEPING HIM PRISONER

“What the?” Dean said.

The sender’s number was not one he recognized. When he called it, all he got was a dead tone. Dean’s thumb briefly hovered over the button, but in the end he decided to keep the message, so to ask Castiel what he thought about it.

  


* * *

  
There were two surprises waiting for Dean when he dropped by his parents’ house.

Mary was sitting at the kitchen island when Dean let himself in. She’d been reading the newspaper, but lowered it as she watched him sort through the mail, picking out bills and the occasional thing meant for the store.

“Castiel was here,” Mary said suddenly.

Dean’s fingers fumbled. “Cas?”

“Was here,” Mary acknowledged, her tone somewhere between knowing and wary. “About an hour ago? He was very particular about explaining that he’d asked around the neighborhood to find me, and then spent another minute or so explaining how he knew you.”

“Sounds like Cas.” Dean laughed nervously. “That must’ve been a surprise. He didn’t say anything about, uh, wanting to meet you.”

Mary leveled an inscrutable look at Dean. “He seems nice.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Dean chuckled under his breath at the mental image of that conversation between Mary and Castiel. What Dean had told her about him had been the superficial things: Dean and Castiel were friends, Dean sometimes went to his house, Dean liked going to his house.

And now, Dean and Castiel had slept together, which from Mary’s piercing gaze, she already knew. Dean doubted Castiel would have been so blithe as to confess that they’d fucked, so he knew that Mary had come to that conclusion solely from the stupid look currently on Dean’s face.

“Dean.” She put down her newspaper, the rustling of paper ominously loud. “He wasn’t here for small talk. He asked about the car accident.”

Dean started. “The what?” A half-formed memory rose up in his mind, of a hand on his chest and vaguely-worded questions. “ _My_ accident?”

Mary nodded, humor gone. “He was polite, I’ll give him that, but he seemed rather insistent to know the details.”

Dean reeled, bewildered. “Why?”

“He couldn’t say, so I told him that if he wanted to know anything he’d have to ask you himself.” Mary shrugged, concerned despite her efforts to appear flippant. “It’s your call.”

Dean could tell that Mary was holding back her opinions on Castiel. She was the sharpest person he knew, and she’d seen something in Castiel’s face, in Castiel’s questions. But she’d hold her tongue, because this was not the time for it.

“Thanks,” Dean said. He stood there for a moment, envelopes in hand and mind running a mile a minute, thinking that Castiel’s concern must have intent. Castiel had asked specific questions that morning, questions that Dean now struggled to remember the exact phrasing of. “Okay, I better go. There’s stuff I got to do at the store.”

“Don’t work too hard, Dean.” Mary crossed the room to squeeze Dean’s shoulder, the touch of comfort more for her than for him. “Someone might think you’re a workaholic.”

“No, that’s Sam,” Dean said wryly. “I just do it ‘cause – what’s that smell?”

“What smell?”

“It’s kinda like…” Dean’s gaze dropped to the hand still on his shoulder. “You painted your nails.” Mary pulled her hand away but it was too late, Dean had already seen the new coat of bright pink. “What are you up to, Mom?”

“Nothing!” Mary said quickly. “Didn’t you say you needed to go to the store and—”

“ _Mom_.”

“Oh.” Mary backed away, her steps uncertain. She started to lift a hand to run through her hair but stopped at the last minute, aware of the varnish. “I’m meeting your father.”

“Dad?” Dean noticed that she’d done her hair, too. “Oh. A _meeting_.”

“Don’t,” Mary said, shaking her head. They’d been here before. “He’s your father.”

“I know.” Dean didn’t need to be told that, though he couldn’t help the flare of indignation that she hadn’t told him this _._ “So you guys are trying again?”

“Slowly, yes.” Mary ducked her head, and Dean knew she hadn’t meant for him to find out so quickly. “We’re going to take it one day at a time.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Good luck.”

Mary winced. “Dean, your father—”

“I _know_ , okay,” Dean snapped, immediately regretting it when Mary’s face fell. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He took a deep breath, forcing his mind to focus on the truth that Mary and John loved each other; it was the other parts that messed things up. “I better go.”

“Please don’t tell Sam,” Mary said. “At least, not until we have a better idea what’s going to happen.”

“I getcha.” He hugged her, and wished good things for those who deserved it.

It wasn’t that Dean wasn’t supportive of their parents getting back together again. It was just that this was a familiar path: Mary and John, doing a decades-old dance around each other with their love that took turns being soft and sharp-edged. If Sam was here to witness this new chapter, Dean would stand by him and bask in Sam’s logical arguments. Sam could see both sides and argue them fiercely. Now, all Dean felt he could do was sit back quietly and try not to hope too much.

That last revelation, that Mary and John were tentatively dating again, made Dean forget all about Castiel’s strange behavior until he went in to the store and found that Castiel had made a morning visit there as well. Only, unlike Mary’s brush off, Tiff had given him exactly what he’d wanted, which was the date Dean had rammed the Impala and gotten a fancy ride in an ambulance.

“He’s super cute. Why has he been hiding in that house for so long?” Tiff asked. Her excited smile faltered when she saw the look on Dean’s face. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Dean said, waving Tiff off.

Dean decided that his parents would be fine. They were adults, they knew what they were doing, and worrying about them wouldn’t change anything.

So Dean’s mind turned to Castiel, who’d moved into Lawrence and refused to step out of his house because he wasn’t comfortable being around people. Yet Castiel had also, within the past twelve hours, willingly traced steps into town to and from Dean.

There was sense in Castiel’s actions, though Dean didn’t have all the pieces to understand just yet.

The accident in question had been a foolish one, made worse because Dean had been driving late at night and hadn’t stopped to rest when he should have. He knew the limits of the body, thanks to his long bouts hitting lonely roads on journeys to nowhere, but occasionally he pushed himself for no reason other than there was no one to argue with him not to.

The Impala, usually reliable thanks to Dean’s constant care of her, was less than perfect that day. A loose piece of tubing and Dean’s own exhaustion (his reflexes would’ve been better otherwise) resulted in an intimate encounter with a tough motherfucker of a tree. If Dean were the type to hold a grudge against an inanimate object, he would’ve gone back to Platte Falls just to chop it down.

There was no reason Dean could think of for why Castiel would care about the when and where of an incident that had happened over a year before they’d even met. He shrugged off the strangeness of it, completely forgot the other question Castiel had asked him, and decided that he could just bug Castiel for details later.

He didn’t get the chance to, though.

Dean did go to the house the moment he could, but something had changed. The house itself was almost an old friend at that point, but the implicit welcome that had been Dean’s over the past couple of weeks had been retracted.

The back door, Dean’s usual point of entry, was locked. There was no response when he knocked. Usually Castiel would answer quickly, rarely leaving Dean waiting for more than a minute or two since he lived on the ground floor and never went anywhere.

“Cas!” Dean called out, knocking again. “Cas, it’s me, you in there?”

When the door remained closed, Dean considered the possibilities. Castiel could still be out, which was a good thing, what with how long Castiel had kept himself sequestered with no more than Dean for company. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption that now Castiel had made that first bold step outside the door, he would’ve rediscovered the outside world and his interest in the things in it.

Dean nodded to himself, satisfied with this reasoning. He circled the house twice anyway, tapping on the windows as he went, and then knocked on the back door again, just in case.

The lack of response, and Castiel’s lack of a working telephone of any kind, meant that there was only one option left. Dean had brought some takeaway from Jemima’s in the off chance that Castiel didn’t already have something planned for dinner, and it would be dark soon.

So Dean sat on the back steps and waited.

Just inside the door, Castiel breathed as quietly as he could, and waited.

Dean waited until he felt stupid, and then he went back to his apartment so he could feel stupid in the privacy of his own home.

  


* * *

  
Though Dean kept checking his cellphone into the following morning, there was no message waiting for him. Castiel could make his way around the internet, so Dean knew that if he wanted to keep in touch, he could.

Resentment turned into worry, for he had no means of contacting Castiel to make sure that he was all right. Castiel was a grown man, capable of taking care of himself, but there was so much Dean didn’t know about him. Their friendship was tenuous, so easily frayed into nothing, because what was Castiel but a drifter living a temporary life? Dean knew that whatever had brought him to Lawrence could have just as easily taken him away, and that would be that.

Dean’s frustrations remained at a low simmer until his apartment buzzer went off.

He jumped up from where he’d been watching TV and fumbled for the intercom, biting back a curse when it wasn’t Castiel.

“ _Dean Winchester_?”

“Yeah, who’s this?” Dean asked.

“ _Agent Henriksen, FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions._ ”

Dean’s first – and natural – reaction was to frantically scour his brain if he’d done anything illegal lately. His second reaction was to wonder what on earth could be interesting enough in this part of Lawrence for an FBI agent to drop by. “I’ll be right down.”

Special Agent Victor Henriksen was all about professionalism, the sharp lines of his suit a contrast against Dean’s weekend slob wardrobe. He flashed a perfunctory smile when Dean offered his hand in greeting, and shook it firmly.

“Can I take a look at that?” Dean asked. Henriksen reopened his badge of credentials, and Dean read the details and dates carefully. Henriksen was as friendly in his photo as he was in person. “Okay, Agent Henriksen, what can I do you for?”

“Just have some questions.” Henriksen pulled out two photographs that were worn down at the edges from having been taken out and put back in too many times. “Have you seen these two individuals recently?”

“What’s this about?” Dean’s eyes lingered on the photo on the left. “They in trouble or something?”

“They’re wanted fugitives,” Henriksen said. He’d noticed Dean’s flicker of recognition. “Theft, impersonating police officers, and attempted murder that we know of.”

“Attempted murder?” Dean exclaimed. He dragged his eyes back to the photo, which hadn’t been taken recently. Jo’s hair was in a different style, her face just a little younger, but the smile was the same.

“You know this one,” Henriksen said.

“She said her name was Jo.” Dean felt an unexpected jab of guilt when he said that. Jo had been friendly, and not at all like someone who’d be into theft, impersonating police officers and attempted murder.

Though when Dean thought about their encounter again, he could see in hindsight that she’d known exactly what she’d been doing, the coy flirtation so smooth as to be routine. Dean had automatically recognized a kindred spirit in her that way. And yet, he still couldn’t imagine her being a dangerous criminal.

“She came by the store a couple of – no, wait – two days ago,” Dean said.

“The store?”

“Winchester Hardware.” Dean waved a hand in the general direction. “On Freeman, red sign, can’t miss it.”

Henriksen asked what she’d said to him, if she’d talked to anyone else, if there was any additional info Dean could offer. Despite his unease, Dean answered the questions as best he could, detailing their brief flirtation, that he hadn’t seen her talk to anyone else, and that she’d left in a darkly-colored car alone.

“Her name’s Joanna Beth Harvelle,” Henriksen said. “I’m surprised she told you her real name, to be honest, she and her partner here tend to use pseudonyms. Their most recent ones being Officers Jett and Benatar.”

Dean snorted.

“Are you sure you don’t recognize this one?” Henriksen asked, waving the second photo.

“Nope, I’m sure.” Dean took another hard look, scrutinizing the attractive brunette half-turned towards the camera. “I would remember a face like that.”

“I bet you would,” Henriksen said mildly. “Positive you don’t know her? Her name’s Gwen Campbell.”

Dean sputtered, and then glared. “It’s a common name.”

“Oh, so she isn’t a cousin, maybe twice-removed?” Henriksen pressed. “Your mother never mentioned any relatives?”

“My grandparents died before I was born, my Mom was an only kid, there’s been no one else,” Dean snapped. “It’s a common name.”

“Just checking all the angles, Mr. Winchester,” Henriksen said with professional pleasantry that set Dean’s teeth on edge. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you for your time.”

Dean didn’t stop glowering until the photos were tucked away and Henriksen turned to leave. Agent Henriksen now knew where Jo had been, and so he went to badger Dean’s employees to tell him what they knew, not that they knew anything more than what Dean had already told him.

The suggestion that Dean might’ve known the Campbell woman annoyed him enough that he took out his cell to call his mother. “An FBI agent just came by my apartment,” he said, as soon as she picked up. “I think he’s going to the store next, or to see you.”

“ _FBI agent?_ ” Mary said in alarm. _“Wait, Dean, slow down. What’s going on?_ ”

“Hell if I know,” Dean muttered. The last interesting thing that had happened to Dean had been when one of his neighbor’s cats got stuck on the roof and he’d gotten Swiss-cheesed getting it down. Now there were fugitives passing through, FBI Agents on the trail of said fugitives, and one very annoying man named Castiel Allen being inscrutable through it all.

He explained to Mary what he knew anyway.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, laughing softly. “ _We are a little off the main roads, maybe they were hiding out, who knows. Did you check that he_ —”

“Yes, I took a good look at his badge,” Dean said. “As far as I could tell, he was legit. But what about this Gwen Campbell? Do you know her, Mom?”

“ _It’s a common name, Dean, don’t worry_ ,” she replied _._ “ _Chances are we_ are _related, but I don’t think that’ll matter. Okay, I better go, but I’ll let you know if anything happens, all right?_ ”

She hung up, leaving Dean to his own devices. He was already unsettled, and he wanted to see Castiel to tell him about Henriksen and Mary and John. Castiel could speculate with the best of them, bringing his unique point of view into almost anything, as Dean had learned the one time they’d watched _Pulp Fiction_ together and Castiel had gotten philosophical on the nature of souls and ownership.

But it seemed a pathetic idea to go to the McArthur house again so soon, as though Dean didn’t have anything better to do. He held it off for as long as he could, preoccupying himself with washing the Impala and catching up on the weirder side of the news, until a couple of hours later his cell phone finally went off.

It was a text message that said: CASTIEL NEEDS YOUR HELP

A chill went up Dean’s spine.

When the feeling passed, Dean shook his head irritably. The message had come from the same unknown number as before and, as before, Dean only got a dead tone when he called it. He sent a text reply anyway, demanding the sender explain themselves.

He waited for a reply.

After a while, when nothing happened, he said, “Fuck it,” and grabbed his jacket.

It didn’t matter whether the warning was valid or not, for Dean had decided that his pride could take a hike and it was more important to make sure that Castiel was okay. Castiel lived alone and things could happen when people lived alone, only to be discovered weeks or months later.

The mysterious text message wasn’t completely useless, though. It reminded Dean to drop by his store on the way so he could grab one of the cheap, prepaid cellphones they sold there, determined to force it on Castiel.

  


* * *

  
Dean wanted answers. He marched up to the house with the mission to get as many as he could, but the moment the door fell open to his very first knock, that focus fell away, secondary to the wide-eyed panic all over Castiel’s face.

“Dean,” Castiel said hoarsely, grabbing Dean and pulling him inside. In the time it took for Dean to blink in surprise, Castiel had slammed the door shut and rushed to the closest window, checking that the curtains were drawn.

“Cas, what the hell?” Dean demanded. The relief of knowing that Castiel was okay was short-lived, and he was angry again. “What are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t be here.” Castiel darted across the room, making sure the other curtains were closed properly as well. “It isn’t safe.”

“Safe from what?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Safe!” Castiel yelled. Taking care of appearances had never been high on Castiel’s list of priorities, but now he was barefoot, his hair wilder than usual, his clothes disheveled. “It’s just me. It’s only on me.”

Dean approached him cautiously, hands out to show that he wasn’t holding anything. “What’s only on you?”

“Did anyone follow you?” Castiel demanded. “Did you see anyone outside?”

“No and no,” Dean answered, bewildered. “Cas, what’s going on? Are you in trouble?”

“I… I think so.” Castiel’s hands were trembling, so Dean took them firmly in his own. Castiel stopped his restless moving about, but the blue eyes that looked up into Dean’s were just shy of full-blown fear. “I don’t know what they want, but they followed me. I think I can keep them out for now, but I shouldn’t have gone out. I _knew_ I shouldn’t have gone out.”

“Hey,” Dean said gently. He rubbed his thumbs in soothing circles on Castiel’s wrists, working on the (erroneous) assumption that Castiel’s claim of not having a phobia had been a lie, and that his trip outside had triggered something. Dean dipped his head down to catch Castiel’s gaze, forcing him to stay eye-to-eye. “Breathe. Slowly, in and out, in and out.”

Castiel struggled to obey, but remained caught in Dean’s patient gaze. Dean rotated Castiel’s wrists in slow, hypnotic circles that Castiel allowed, basking in Dean’s soothing presence. Dean’s presence had always been soothing. Soon they were breathing in tandem, and Castiel’s shoulders relaxed.

Instead of thanking him, Castiel said, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to make sure you were all right,” Dean said, no longer having it in him to be angry. “You just went off, and you weren’t here when I came by yesterday.”

Castiel straightened up abruptly and pulled his hands free from Dean’s. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay—”

“It was a mistake,” Castiel said stiffly. “What we did. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I never meant for that to happen.”

Dean stared while that sunk in. “It was a _mistake_?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, sounding distant as he retreated behind the defenses he was building in his head. His hands were clenched at his sides, his fists no longer Dean’s to touch. “It wasn’t part of the plan. You were never part of the plan.”

A new type of anger, this one far more bitter, rose up in Dean. “And what’s in this _plan_ of yours, Cas?”

“Finish Zachariah’s task,” Castiel said. “Save up enough money. Go home.”

“Go _home_?” Dean laughed, which made Castiel flinch. “To the family that kicked you out?”

“It’s the only home I know.”

Dean reeled, the statement a slap in the face. It wasn’t simply what Castiel had said, but how he’d said it: so matter-of-factly, as though it was the absolute truth, with no possible argument.

 _What about here_ , Dean wanted to say.

Then he saw Castiel’s little self-satisfied nod, and it hit him.

“Cas, you shithead,” Dean said hoarsely. Castiel was smart, and certainly smart enough to understand everything they’d been building between them, which was more than just the house, more than just the food. That had been clear when Castiel had gone to him.

That meant that this weird behavior was covering up for something.

Head buzzing, Dean stepped in close. He watched, almost detached, as his approach forced Castiel to back up step by step until he was pressed against the wall. Castiel’s eyes had gone wide with new alarm, and Dean wanted to get even closer so he could drown in them.

“Dean?” Castiel said uncertainly.

“What’s going on with you, Cas?” Dean leaned in so that his body was pressed against Castiel’s, warm and familiar despite Dean’s having had only one night to learn its angles and hollows. Dean placed his hand at the base of Castiel’s throat, feeling the jolt when he swallowed. “How can I help you?”

Castiel’s mouth open and shut. Dean was mesmerized by the shape of it.

After a long moment of staring, Castiel whispered, “I can’t have this.” He shook his head but didn’t break eye-contact. “This is not for me.”

“What are you talkingabout?” Dean asked.

There was a confession in Castiel’s eyes. It was right there on the edge of understanding, but Dean hadn’t known Castiel long enough to decipher its language.

An anguished sound ripped from Castiel’s throat and he surged up, hand grabbing the back of Dean’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Dean stumbled in surprise but quickly got with the program, kissing back and wrapping his arms around Castiel for balance.

Castiel kissed him like he was starving for it.

Where he’d been curious and tender before, now he was hungry and desperate, stealing one open-mouthed kiss after another from Dean’s mouth. In the miniscule pauses between for breath, Castiel kept making small sounds, breathless distress in each one, every kiss costing him something.

There was a frantic finality to this that Dean didn’t like, so he retaliated with softer kisses, shying away from Castiel’s teeth nips to flick his tongue against Castiel’s lower lip and then suck on it. Castiel paused uncertainly and Dean took the opportunity to mold their mouths together, lips slotted together properly for a slow, deep kiss.

Castiel’s fingers curled into fists in the back of Dean’s shirt. For a moment Dean thought it was because Castiel didn’t want him to escape, but then those hands moved around Dean’s torso, found the planes of his chest, and pushed.

“This is a punishment!” Castiel snarled, shoving Dean away with such force that he slammed against a chair, hip protesting at the impact. By the time Dean recovered – more from shock than pain – he found that Castiel had grabbed a book from a nearby table and was brandishing it as a shield. “You are a punishment, Dean Winchester, and I will not have it.”

Castiel’s lips were kiss-swollen but the red of his face was about anger. Everything about him was tense and on edge, but all Dean could see was a friend who was barely holding on and unable to ask for what he needed.

“Cas,” Dean said slowly. “You do know that if you’re in any trouble, you can—”

“I don’t want you!” Castiel exclaimed, waving the heavy leather-bound book threateningly. “Get out!”

“Okay!” Dean said, hands raised in surrender. He couldn’t see any way of reaching Castiel when he was acting like this. “I’ll go, but please, take this.” He pulled out the cell he’d bought and placed it on the counter closest to the door. “I’ve put my number in. I won’t call you, I swear, but if you ever need anything—”

“I said go!” Castiel shouted.

“Going, going,” Dean said.

It was only later, after Dean had arrived back at his apartment, that he realized in the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten to ask Castiel about everything.

  


* * *

  
By the following day, Dean decided that it wasn’t the worst break-up he’d ever had. It was the most frustrating, yes, because with Dean’s previous break-ups he at least knew why they’d happened. The thing with Castiel had been left a hanging thread, taunting him whenever he thought about it, so he tried not to.

Dean turned to work, for Winchester Hardware’s paperwork and inventory checks and other issues were enough to keep him occupied. There was an uptick in business, quite a few homeowners seeking to strengthen their houses since the earthquake and tornado incidents a couple of states around. Tiff did comment that he was quieter than usual, but Dean told her it was nothing and left it at that.

Then the store’s mail came. There was one large, thin envelope addressed to Dean.

He opened it with no more tender loving care than he did the store’s other mail, but that was because he hadn’t been expecting the newspaper clipping that slipped out of the envelope. It was a small article that had been salvaged from a local newspaper with a title in mild bold: _Unidentified man found wandering in Platte Falls._

Dean looked at the article’s publishing date.

Then he rolled his chair over to the store computer and searched for the article’s online equivalent. It existed, thus proving that the article was real. He stared, re-read the article a few times, and then jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

“You okay, Dean?” Tiff asked. “What’s that?”

He handed the paper article over, thoughts racing a mile an impossible minute. The piece of paper said that an amnesiac with no identification had been found wandering just outside the Platte Falls Conservation Area, and if anyone with information would come forward, that would be much appreciated.

“Isn’t that your friend?” Tiff asked, tapping a thumb against the grainy photo. “Looks like him. Hey, Platte, isn’t that where—”

“I ran the Impala into a tree, yes,” Dean said.

“Actually, I was going to say, where Delious’ girlfriend works, but that’s true as well,” Tiff said.

Dean stood up abruptly, snatching the article back. “I’m going out.” Tiff could barely get in her protest through Dean’s declaration that she and the others could handle the store for a couple of hours while he settled this.

“Okay, whatever you need,” Tiff said, backing away under the force of Dean’s determination.

Driving to Platte Falls wouldn’t take long. It was practically next door and familiar territory for Dean, who’d spent many long hours in the Impala burning rubber in taking her to see the sights. The only difference now was that this wasn’t a pleasure ride, and in focusing on a specific goal, Dean estimated that he could be there and back with plenty of time left over for closing.

Dean revved up the Impala and took off, knowing exactly where to go. He hadn’t been back there since the accident, but he knew exactly which off-road to use, exactly which spot to look for.

Only this time, when he arrived, the tree wasn’t there anymore.

Dean parked the Impala and stepped out, unexpected disappointment sweeping over him. He walked right up to the place the tree had been and stamped his boot against the ground a few times. This was part of his personal history and there was nothing but an open space of grass to look at.

There was no more evidence of Dean’s momentary bad driving, no sign that it’d happened at all.

“Yodel-ay-hee-hoo,” Dean called out experimentally. Nature answered with its soothing chorus of birds and wind, but that was it. Dean turned slowly, letting his eyes pass over the trees, the road and the suggestion of fields beyond the wild hedges.

He pulled out the newspaper clipping from his jacket pocket. The final paragraph named the hospital Castiel had been brought to, but Dean could easily fill in the blanks: no one had collected him and Castiel had been discharged under his own care. The photo of Castiel wasn’t flattering, but it couldn’t be, not when he’d been wandering and lost. But more importantly, he’d been wandering and lost only a few days and miles away from where Dean had crashed his car.

When Dean closed his eyes, it was easier to pull his scattered memories together.

He could practically hear the screech of the tires, and remember how it’d felt when the steering wheel slipped from under his fingers. The crunch of metal on wood arrived after the first unforgiving slam against his chest, a belated sonic boom.

When he’d woken up later, the doctors had told him it was a miracle. Mary and John had been at his bedside, pale and silent with worry, and they’d asked the questions Dean couldn’t. The answers they’d received were vague: it was a miracle, his injuries were superficial, Dean had been found outside the car.

Dean had never thought too closely about that last detail before because like everyone else, he’d assumed the obvious: he’d been thrown from the car.

It was certainly a more logical conclusion than what had actually happened: he’d been pulled from the car.

The ambulance that had come to collect him had been working on a 911 call of unknown origin. Then, at the hospital, Mary had touched Dean’s forelock and whispered “Thank God”. John had been kinder, only berating Dean for not paying attention while driving, and then offering to help rebuild the Impala.

Among the Winchesters, religion was more Sam and Mary’s expertise, and John gamely went along with whatever Mary wanted. Dean didn’t mind going to church, but organized religion turned him off more often than not, so his beliefs were firm but faceless.

Dean was a human being who trusted what he knew, but he was also aware that the world was enormous and strange. He’d always been open to the idea of ‘maybe’, even if there had been very few curveballs in his life until this.

That was why it’d been difficult for him to think about the finer points of the accident. It _was_ evidence of something, but Dean felt that if he acknowledged that too deeply, he would have to acknowledge where the strings were attached. Sam had been right on that part.

Another memory snuck forward in Dean’s mind. It was of a hand on Dean’s chest and an insistent voice saying, “ _Why do you not have any scars?_ ”

He didn’t have any scars because it had been a miracle.

Dean felt cold. The wind had picked up, whistling softly between watchful trees. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and almost laughed when his cell phone vibrated with an incoming message. It was from the same unknown number.

ARE YOU READY TO SEE, DEAN?

There were also coordinates. Plugging them into his phone’s GPS gave Dean a location about half a mile into the conservation area.

These were breadcrumbs. It occurred to Dean that he should be angry for being led on a chase with not even a hint of what the end game was, but the anger refused to come. Instead, he felt distant, as though this was a story happening to someone else and that none of it would matter when he eventually woke up.

Going another half a mile wasn’t too much to ask.

What Dean found at the coordinates was not a pot of gold but it might as well have been for all that it made sense to his eyes.

The conservation area was beautiful in itself but this specific spot was the prized painting of the gallery, the jewel of the collection. It was a concave crater in the ground that now acted as nature’s canvas, filled up with stunning beauty in every leaf and branch and flower – many of them not native to Kansas.

Dean stared, and then checked to make sure that the other visitors shared the same view. There were a few others gawking at the sight – a couple of hikers, a ranger and two student photographers who were making use of the good light.

“A meteor fell here,” the ranger was saying. “I’m not an expert, so I can’t tell you what kind or from where, though.”

Dean suppressed a snort. He knew what meteor impact sites looked like and this was not it.

“Where did all the flowers come from?” one of the hikers asked. “Were they planted here?”

“Oh, no,” the ranger said, this question asked of him all the time. He cheerfully explained how the vegetation had bloomed after the crash, and that scientists were still studying the phenomena though no hard conclusions had been released just yet.

Dean wondered if he should even bother asking the date of when the meteor supposedly fell.

“Dean?”

He turned sharply.

Standing nearby was a young woman and she was smiling at him with such relief that Dean immediately tensed up. She pulled out her cellphone and pressed a button that made Dean’s phone ring, confirming for his benefit that she was the source of the text messages.

“Couldn’t you have just, I don’t know, _called_?” Dean asked. “Or at least picked up when I called back? Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Anna,” she said. “And thank you for coming. I didn’t expect it so quickly but I had hoped you would. Thank you.”

Dean glowered at her, but underneath that, she made him uneasy. Anna’s gaze on him was appraising and eerily sharp, a mirror of the way Castiel looked at Dean sometimes. When she took a step closer, Dean tensed up and his hands balled into fists. Though she had a slight build and delicate wrists, his accurate instincts whispered a warning.

“I’m a friend,” Anna said.

“Sure,” Dean said with a sarcastic shrug. He canted his head at the impossible crater, filled with such greenery and wild blooms it was though it were an indentation made by the thumb of God Himself. “What is this? What does this have to do with Cas?”

“I think that you already have your suspicions,” Anna said, still measuring him up. “Or you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Anna’s expression gentled. “Please try.”

The idea sounded insane even in the safety of Dean’s head. To say it out loud, to a stranger no less, seemed unthinkable. Yet standing in front of Dean was a woman whose eyes told him that she already knew something impossible and she was just waiting for him to get there.

“Cas saved my life,” Dean said. “That night, with my car.”

Anna exhaled with relief. “Yes, that’s right. You were dying and he helped you.”

A new memory unfurled in Dean’s head from where it had been pressed between countless half-formed images he’d chalked up to nightmares, hallucinations, or his mind simply trying to cope with what had happened.

There had been a woman with dark hair that night. She was a Reaper, and though Dean hadn’t known that they were called Reapers, he’d understood that the woman-shaped being had come to take him away. She’d talked to him with soft, soothing words, telling him that it was time and that there would be peace.

But even Reapers, who considered themselves the final word, could be surprised.

“He paid for it,” Dean said. “He saved my life and then he paid for it. But, wait, no, that doesn’t make sense, Cas – when I first met him – he didn’t know me, didn’t know any of this.”

“Ah, then his memories aren’t intact,” Anna said, nodding thoughtfully. “We usually forget everything when we fall, but Castiel is a unique case.”

“ _We_?” Dean scowled at her. “What is he? What are you?”

“Castiel is my brother.”

“I see,” Dean said, who didn’t see at all.

Castiel had told Dean that his family had kicked him out, which was both true and completely false. Castiel’s statement had worked as he’d intended, raising in Dean’s mind the image of a family cruelly pushing Castiel to the streets. There was no way Dean could have imagined the truth, which included Anna now spreading her arms, a thunderclap of displaced air, and the shadow of massive wings spread out on either side of her body.

Someone else screamed, so Dean didn’t have to.

“Shit,” Anna muttered, realizing that she should have remembered the bystanders. But what’s done was done, so she stepped up to Dean, said, “Let’s go”, and pressed two fingers to his forehead.

A blink and they were no longer at the crater but at his car.

Dean choked on air, backing away from Anna in panic. She was human-shaped but now Dean knew better and rushed around Impala to get away from her. “Jesus Christ – _Jesus Christ_! What the fuck was that?”

“You have to get Castiel out of Lawrence,” Anna said. “It’s not safe for him. I can’t go in because Zach—”

“You get away from me,” Dean warned, pulling the car door open. He had a gun in the glove compartment, and although he didn’t know if they worked against creatures like Anna, it was better than nothing. “I don’t know what you are—”

“Angel,” Anna said. “I’m an angel, just like Castiel used to be.”

Dean stared, and then pointed the gun at her.

“Please, you need to tell him that, if he’s forgotten,” Anna said. “Look, I brought you here so you could understand. That garden you saw in that crater? That’s where Castiel fell and his Grace touched the Earth, _after_ he saved your life. You’ve seen that, you’ve seen a glimpse of my true form, you’ve put the pieces together yourself about how you survived something you shouldn’t have. Are you really going to lie to yourself now?”

Dean shook his head in denial even as another resurfaced memory slid forward, trying to get his attention.

After the Reaper had gone, there had been an all-consuming light, bright and cold and incomprehensible as it flooded around Dean. He’d basked in it, sobbing with relief when the pain ebbed, up until the light had been snatched away. Dean had been barely conscious at the time, but he’d heard the echo of a scream that was as terrifying as the sky being ripped apart.

That had been Castiel, though Dean was not yet at a place where he would accept that. So he snarled at Anna, “You can take your fucking light show—”

“Fine!” Anna snapped. For a moment her eyes were barely human, an ancient and terrible self briefly bleeding through. “When you’re ready to know more, you may call me.” Then she was gone, vanishing into thin air with what sounded to Dean’s common ears like the rustle of wings.

Dean turned around slowly, gun up and at the ready, but she didn’t rematerialize. A long, shaky moment later, Dean got into the car and started the engine. He was proud how steady his hands were on the steering wheel.

It was good to have something to focus on, so Dean focused on getting back home.

  


* * *

  
“Cas, you open up right now!” Dean shouted, fist slamming on the door. At this point he didn’t care that he sounded crazy, for he felt that this was the perfect time for crazy. He changed location and then slammed his palm against the window, rattling the glass. “Let me in, you son of a bitch!”

His head felt full, the ground unsteady beneath his feet. He needed to see Castiel, craving confirmation that this insanity wasn’t his alone to have, but Castiel wasn’t answering.

Dean kicked down the door.

The house within was still and pristine but there was no Castiel hovering inside like a coward. Dean poked around in search of him, checking the closet and bathroom before scoping out the unused first floor. He didn’t find anyone for there was no one to be found.

Castiel’s clothes were gone. He didn’t have that many, but they’d been hung or folded neatly in the shelf-closet next to his bed. Those spaces were all empty now. When Dean double-checked the bathroom, Castiel’s toiletries were gone, too.

Castiel had left and there was no note left behind for the one person who would’ve cared.

Dean glared at Castiel’s bed, his shelves, his work area, the computer sitting benignly on the desk, the books arranged in careful piles. These items had been sacred to Castiel so Dean had respected that but now they were abandoned relics.

“Fuck it,” Dean said, and read the book titles.

There were texts on demonology, mythology, religion and magic. There were lexicons in various languages, most of them incomprehensible to Dean, and all of them with Castiel’s notes peeking out from between their pages. There were thick binders filled with pages upon pages of text in dead or dying languages, with Castiel’s grammatical corrections marked in red ink.

This haphazard, supernatural collection was impressive for someone who’d only had a few months to build it up, but that was because where Castiel had been frugal on spending Zachariah’s money for casual comfort, he’d been generous in spending money for information.

Dean rummaged around Castiel’s desks and found a separate, thick folder. It was far more carefully bound and organized than the other binders.

The first page was a printout of an old-fashioned angel painting. Not the Precious Moments kind, but the kind that wore impractical body armor and held a spear in its hands as it descended towards a snake-eyed creature. True to the theme, the pages beyond were filled with angel lore. Some of the text had been highlighted but some had been crossed out in angry red pen, Castiel’s tiny handwriting far more common here.

On one of the pages, Castiel had written: _Do Not Forget_

This folder was personal in a way that the other texts weren’t.

So Dean turned the pages slowly, tracing the path of Castiel painstakingly putting the pieces of his identity together. Castiel had told Dean that he wanted to find a way home and the compilation now in Dean’s hands was evidence of that search. Dean didn’t understand the sigils and spells but he could understand the English parts of Castiel’s notes, his stream of consciousness all over the pages, tucked between drawings and paragraphs and wherever there had been space.

_to be denied the truth and understanding, this is not mercy_

_how to differentiate between dream and memory_

_it must be considered that I am insane and this is just delusion_

On and on it went. Castiel had known that he used to be an angel but he’d had no one to talk to about this for no one could possibly listen without questioning his sanity. It had been safer to pour all of that out here, into these pages upon pages that he’d never intended anyone to see, though they were all now laid bare before Dean.

Dean trailed his thumb over a particularly angry scrawl of _I know what I am_ , scratched again and again at the top of a page over a paragraph describing ‘Castiel the Angel of Thursday’. Dean had the idle thought how it was funny that he’d gotten his wish. He’d wanted to know about Castiel, and now he was learning more than he’d thought possible.

 _They took everything but the barest sense of self_ , another section of Castiel’s ramblings read. _This is logical because it’s only in knowing what I used to be that the punishment has effect._

In turning another page, a small white note fell out. This one was newer than the rest and it had only numbers: the date of Dean’s accident.

“Oh,” Dean said. Castiel had figured it out all by himself. He’d been so angry, living out a punishment despite having no idea what he was being punished for, and then he’d found Dean.

Dean’s body had no scars because Castiel had healed them all. A former angel would have known that that was possible, and after a little poking around, even a partial amnesiac like Castiel would have been able to put the pieces together.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean dropped the folder. “Cas, you asshole.”

What Anna had told him was true, though Dean had some ways to go before he learned how deep it all went.

Dean jumped when his phone vibrated, the trilling guitar riffs of Ritchie Blackmore snapping him out of his thoughts. He was relieved that it was John and picked up. “Hey, Dad.”

“ _Dean, have you seen your mother?_ ” John asked.

“No,” Dean said. “Not today. Something wrong?”

John’s weary sigh reminded Dean of the existence of normal, human things. “ _We were supposed to… I don’t know if she told you, but we were going to have a… thing today. Just lunch. She didn’t show up._ ”

“That’s not like her.” Dean got up and grabbed his jacket. “Did she call?”

“ _I just got a message, she said she was busy_ ,” John said, chuckling self-deprecatingly. “ _But I thought… I don’t know, it’s probably nothing._ ”

“I’ll check.” Dean was already out the door and palming the Impala’s keys. He glanced back at the house and decided that Castiel would have to wait. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but it won’t hurt to check.”

“ _Dean_.”

He stopped at the order in John’s voice. “Dad?”

“ _You’ve been taking good care of your mother, haven’t you_?”

Dean’s stomach dropped, for he could hear the crack in John’s stoicism. “I try. Don’t know if I’m doing a good job with it, but yeah.”

“ _That should be me,_ ” John said with a sigh, sounding far older than he was. “ _I should have – I wish I could just... Hah. Wishing does shit all, doesn’t it?”_

“That it does, sir.”

John laughed softly, the sound almost strange to Dean’s ears and making him think of easier times. “ _You’re a good son, Dean._ ”

“Thank you, sir.” Dean hesitated, then said, “That doesn’t make it okay, though.”

“ _I know. Believe me, I know, but… Shit, I said ‘but’, didn’t I. Never mind. You go, Dean._ ”

“I’ll get back to you soon,” Dean promised. He hung up and immediately called Mary. She didn’t answer.

There was no question in Dean’s mind what the appropriate response was. He was off in his car and headed straight for Mary’s house, but despite the weirdness of the rest of this day, didn’t panic. Dean remained calm, steadfast in his refusal to let his imagination go wild.

When Dean pulled up in the driveway, the house’s curtains were closed. The front door was not tampered with and the lock opened up obediently under Dean’s key the way it always did.

There was no answer when he called out for his mother. Dean started to think that it would be the day of breaking into empty houses when he noticed an unfamiliar jacket on the living room couch. Mary had company over but Dean found it hard to imagine that any of her attractively middle-aged friends had secret biker tendencies.

Mary’s camera was on the coffee table.

Maybe it was because Dean had just spent over an hour ruthlessly destroying the trust another person had put in him, maybe it was just careless curiosity, maybe it was a force with no name trying to tell him something.

Dean picked up the camera and turned it on.

The first few were experimental shots around the house, interesting angles that made Dean’s childhood home look a little different. After that were pictures of trees, clouds, a neighbor’s dog, and then a series of photos of the McArthur house from almost every possible angle.

There were a series of stills following Castiel taking out the trash. Their focus was clear and any paparazzi photographer would have praised their quality. Most of the pictures were from the side or behind but the last featured Castiel in the motion of turning towards the camera.

 _I don’t know what they want,_ Castiel had told Dean, _but they followed me._

Dean put the camera down. His hands were steady when he reached for his cellphone. He’d promised Castiel that he wouldn’t call him but that promise wasn’t worth anything anymore.

The trilling sound of the default ringtone lasted a few seconds before it was abruptly turned off. It was more than enough time for Dean to pinpoint that it’d come from the basement.

Dean descended the staircase, on full alert.

Castiel was there, tied to a chair. His eyes widened when he saw Dean, mouth moving noiselessly around a gag.

“Don’t move,” came a whisper behind Dean, making him freeze in his approach towards Castiel. “Hands where I can see them.”

Dean felt a gun against his back. He estimated that the person was shorter than him, and spun around.

His hands were quick, for his father was John Winchester, a former marine who’d spent some idle summers passing what knowledge he had down to his eldest (and only interested) son. Dean was no soldier but he knew this much, pushing the shotgun’s muzzle upwards to the ceiling and then grappling for it.

Gwen Campbell – her hair a little longer than it had been in Agent Henriksen’s photo – was stronger than her build suggested. They struggled for the shotgun, though Gwen had the advantage in that she was mentally prepared for this. Dean was barely holding on through a fog of confusion – Castiel was in Mary’s house, this stranger was in Mary’s house, _how and why and how_ – though he didn’t deserve the kick to his knee that Gwen delivered with relish.

“Oh, God, stop!” Mary ran forward, dropping at Dean’s side to check that he was okay. “Dean, are you all right?”

“What the hell!” Dean yelled, glaring accusingly at Gwen. She was smiling faintly, amused by Dean’s outburst, and hefted the shotgun to her shoulder with casual ease. Dean pointed a finger, exclaiming, “Mom, that’s one of the chicks that FBI guy was after!”

“I know,” Mary said. “Dean, you have to calm down.”

“Calm down?” Dean got to his feet, backing away from Mary and moving in a careful arc towards Castiel. “You’ve got Cas tied up in the freaking basement, you’re harboring a freaking fugitive of the freaking law, and _I’m_ the one who has to calm down?”

“Oh, he’s adorable,” Gwen said, grinning at Mary. “Takes after his father?”

“Gwen, don’t,” Mary said sharply.

Dean and Mary stared at each other. The lie hovered between them, huge and bitter until Dean had to turn away. Mary’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, unable to acknowledge it any more than Dean could.

“Look, this guy attacked me,” Gwen said, unimpressed by the non-conversation. “I had to tie him up.”

“Oh, really?” Dean said scornfully, carefully making his way towards Castiel. “I’m sure your intentions were noble.” He untied the knot of Castiel’s gag, ignoring Gwen’s sputter of indignation.

Once Castiel’s mouth was free, he snarled at her, “I was _defending_ myself.” He glanced up at Dean, murmuring a quick, “Thank you.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Mary said, shooting a stern glare at Gwen. Dean ignored them both and took out his penknife, cutting through the ropes binding Castiel’s wrists. Gwen let out a sound of protest but Mary held her back, saying, “He passed all the tests, Gwen. Salt, silver—”

“But he’s _something_ ,” Gwen insisted, fingers moving down the barrel of her shotgun to rest against the trigger. “I know what I’m talking about. You’ve been out of the game too long but I can tell when something isn’t human.”

Castiel stiffened but said nothing. He kept his face turned away from Dean as he massaged his wrists. “I have to go.”

“Hell no,” Gwen said, quickly blocking the exit.

Castiel stood up and glared at her. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Look,” Mary said gently, more the diplomat than Gwen, “We just need to ask you a few questions—”

“I refuse,” Castiel said immediately. “I refuse and I wish to leave right now.”

Mary continued anyway. “There’s been strange things happening for the last couple of months. Weather acting all weird, earthquakes, hail, storms out of season. We’ve been seeing it on the news.”

This wasn’t a game, Mary’s face said, this wasn’t something she was doing for fun. Dean had indeed noticed the special weather reports that had been almost constant on the news, but he – and almost everyone else in their community – hadn’t put much thought to it besides ‘global warming was a bitch’.

“That has nothing to do with me,” Castiel said.

“Lawrence has been untouched,” Mary said, “And not just by the weather. Ghosts, spirits, demons, just about every supernatural creature that ever was has been acting out of character, everywhere but here. Not just that, there’s been no activity here at all. _At all._ It’s as if Lawrence is an eye in the storm.”

“That,” Castiel said again, “has nothing to do with me.”

Dean’s thoughts raced, a switch in his mind flipped thanks to the surreal experience of hearing his mother talk about such things as fact. There was no one to blame but himself when he blurted out, “Ghosts, spirits and demons? Well, I suppose since _angels_ are real, it only makes sense that—”

Castiel choked. Mary and Gwen looked at Dean.

“Angels?” Mary echoed.

“There’s no such thing,” Gwen added.

Castiel’s eyes were full shock. After a moment, they softened with relief, a surprised smile curving Castiel’s mouth at the realization that Dean already knew what he used to be.

“You used to say angels were watching over me,” Dean said to his mother. “If you believed in all those other things, why not angels?”

“Oh, will you all just. Shut. Up.”

Everyone turned to Zachariah. A moment ago it’d just been four of them yelling at each other and now there was Zachariah in his suit, stepping forward as though he’d been there all along. He sneered at Gwen’s raised shotgun. “Save your ammo, sweetie.”

“How’d he get in?” Gwen hissed.

“Salt lines don’t work on angels,” Zachariah said. “The more you know, huh? Hello, Castiel, how arewe doing today?”

“You’re an angel,” Castiel said flatly. This news made him stand up straight, hands curled into fists. “You were my brother.”

“Of course I am, or were,” Zachariah said cheerfully. “And of course I couldn’t tell you that. I’m the one who ripped out your Grace and emptied that head of yours, except for a few of your more _useful_ memories, of course.”

Castiel’s jaw tightened. “Damn you,” he hissed softly.

“Not today, thanks.” With that, Zachariah turned to everyone else and clapped his hands loudly. “So! This has been very interesting but ultimately useless. You, Dean, we expected since you can always be counted on to scratch and scratch and scratch when something gets into your head, but _you_.” He turned to Mary. “We hadn’t counted on you at all.”

Mary regarded him coolly. “You say waste of ammo, I say we’ll never know for sure until we try.”

Zachariah grinned at her, delighted. “You’re so much more interesting this way, I’ll give you that.”

Castiel had moved. Everyone else had been too focused on Zachariah to notice, but Castiel had surreptitiously shifted behind Dean, fingers brushing Dean’s to tug his pen knife free.

“So you’re the one behind all the weird things that have been happening lately?” Mary asked.

“Oh, I wish,” Zachariah said with a sigh. “Not that it’ll matter what I tell you, since you’re not going to remember any of it in a moment.” He raised his hands, an echo of the way Anna had raised hers.

Castiel pushed Dean aside, his red-stained fingers slashing across the wall.

Zachariah roared. “You—!”

Castiel slammed his hand on the blood-drawn sigil and a flash of light filled the room, blood magic at its simplest. When it faded, Zachariah was gone.

The stunned silence didn’t last long. Castiel clutched his bleeding arm and ducked past Dean to escape only to be blocked by an equally fast Gwen.

“I don’t know how long it’ll last,” Castiel told her. “He’ll be back, maybe with reinforcements.”

“You’re an angel, and you know something,” Gwen said.

“Not anymore, and no, I don’t!” Castiel shouted back. “I don’t know anything and I certainly didn’t know _he_ was an angel. Believe me; I would have done a number of things differently if I’d known that. This place is _not safe._ ”

“He’s right,” Mary said, reaching out to lower the muzzle of Gwen’s shotgun. “We need to get out of here before anything else happens. Get somewhere neutral and protected.”

Gwen’s eyebrow twitched, but she barked, “Fine! I’ll call Jo. She should be wondering what the hell’s been taking us so damn long.”

Castiel made a face. “I’m not going with _you_.”

“Castiel—” Mary said.

Dean touched Castiel’s wrist. The unexpected movement made Mary fall silent and Castiel start with surprise.

“We’ll go together, all of us,” Dean said firmly, glancing from Castiel to Mary and back. “Cas can ride with me.” When Mary tried to protest Dean said, “Of course I’m coming with, Mom. There’s no goddamn way I’m staying behind.”


	3. Act Three

The world, as Dean Winchester had known it, had tilted off-axis, but he was dealing with it pretty well. Dean already had an open mind to begin with and now new ideas were coming in – some of those ideas outlandish, alien and even hurtful.

Mary was riding shotgun, pensive and silent as she stared out the window. Castiel was in the backseat, tending to his cuts with Dean’s first aid kit and occasionally grunting when he couldn’t get the bandage right. Gwen and Jo were following them in Jo’s car, leaving enough privacy for the dialogue that was about to happen.

“Mom,” Dean said. “Start at the beginning. Please.”

Mary hesitated but they were far enough down this path she couldn’t not tell Dean what he wanted to know. “I’ll try.”

These were the bedtime stories of Dean’s childhood but through a mirror darkly, an inversion of the Santa Claus talk. Mary told Dean that things that went bump in the night sometimes had teeth and claws. She told him how creatures of nightmares and legend were more often real than not, but they were also real enough that they could be fought with hands and weapons.

Hunters were the ones who stood at the edge of the shadows, beating these creatures back from touching the rest of the world. To these people, hunting wasn’t a career but a way of life, though there were few hunter families as extensive as the Campbells. Mary had been brought up in that life, and there she’d stayed until she’d met John, who represented everything she’d been denied. So she’d taken that chance and broken free.

“My grandparents?” Dean asked.

“A demon killed them,” Mary said. “I never looked back and I’ve had barely any contact with that world since. Your father doesn’t know.”

“You have to tell him,” Dean said.

“Tell him what?” Mary demanded, surprising Dean with her vehemence. She spoke from a place of guilt, but Dean was too close to her to see it. “ _Why_? We can settle this and go back home, Dean. It’ll be like none of it ever happened and our lives can go on.”

It was a tempting proposition and Dean could see the upside of it. They could do this (though what _this_ was hadn’t been made clear to Dean yet) and return to the rest of their lives. This side adventure could be reduced to an amusing anecdote, or a footnote in their history to be recalled on quiet nights where the world seemed too mundane for words.

Dean’s gut feeling told him that that wouldn’t happen. His gut feeling was correct.

“You’ve been teaching us things,” Dean said. “All our lives. Salt. Fire. Silver. Always trust your instincts. Watch out for shadows.”

Mary shut her eyes, three decades of silence pressing down on all sides. “I’ve kept us as protected as well as I could, though there haven’t been any incidents since...”

“Since what? Since _what_ , Mom?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mary murmured.

“Mom,” Dean said, exasperated. “ _Please_.”

“The demon that killed your grandparents,” Mary said quietly, breath hitching, “I made a deal with it.”

“You made a deal with a demon?” Castiel chimed up in alarm. He backed away with a sheepish apology.

Mary had to explain what a deal was before Dean could properly appreciate the horror of it. Once he had that information, he tried to imagine his mother driven by grief to accept a fixed deck but the mental image kept skittering away, his brain unable to contain it. Dean could comprehend even less what she’d agreed to.

“Sam?” Dean stared at her, his mother, who was turning into a stranger right before his eyes. He knew, even as he longed to deny it, that he would never be able to look at her the same way again. “You gave the demon _Sam_?”

“I know!” Mary exclaimed, relief and sorrow in finally giving voice to the secret she’d been choking on for so long. “Your father was dead, my parents were dead, and I was… Demons push the knife in and twist, and then they ask you sweetly if you’d like the knife pulled out just a little bit, _oh_ it won’t cost much.”

Mary Winchester née Campbell turned away, unable to bear Dean’s scorn though she believed she deserved it.

“I promised it that I wouldn’t interfere,” Mary said, “But to hell with that. I was going to fight it. I was _ready_ for it, but it never showed up. There was a specific window it said it would come – Sam at six months old, but nothing happened. I warded the house, Sam’s room, did everything I knew to block the demon’s entry.”

Dean was quiet as he tried to understand the enormity of Mary’s confession. Castiel was quiet, debating with himself whether to mention that to his knowledge some higher up demons could bypass common magical wards. Mary was quiet, already knowing what Castiel hadn’t said out loud, but wanting so badly to convince herself that maybe, just maybe, Sam was all right and untouched by darkness.

“We have to tell Sam,” Dean said eventually.

“How, Dean?” Mary asked. “Would you have believed any of this if I’d told it to you yesterday? It sounds insane from the outside. It _is_ insane from the outside. The only reason that you know any of this at all is because of Castiel.”

“Don’t bring Cas into this.”

“She’s right,” Castiel said calmly. “Your life had been mostly untouched by the supernatural until I came into it. Even now, my problems are not your concern.”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean snapped. “Of course they’re my concern. You fell because of me.”

Castiel gasped, just as Mary said, “What?”

Dean told them about Anna and her messages.

“You believed her?” Castiel asked incredulously. “If she’s an angel, she could just as easily be working with Zachariah to some shared purpose. Zachariah lied to me. He’s been lying to me all this time. He pretended to help me when I was only in that situation because he _put_ me there.”

“Zachariah put you there?” Mary asked. “He put you in Lawrence?”

Castiel sighed. “Yes. He found me, set me up in the McArthur house, paid me to do some research into the paranormal for some book he said he was going to publish. Said I had a knack for it.” He huffed softly. “Liar.”

Mary made a thoughtful sound. “Could he have planted you there for a reason?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. “Maybe.”

“ _Of course_ he did,” Dean exclaimed. He thought back to Zachariah’s sharp, knowing smiles; how Zachariah had looked at Castiel, then at Dean, as though he’d known something – which he _had_. “I may not know why, but it’s clear to me he knew exactly what he was doing. Shit. I guessed that asshole was bad news but if he’s the dick that made you fall, then why on earth would he have let us…?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question,” Castiel said quietly. “I thought that it was part of my punishment, that my brothers allowed me to find you and then… something. Take it away from me again, I don’t know.”

“So it _is_ true,” Dean said with satisfaction. “You saved my life, and stopped being an angel because of it.”

Castiel was silent. He’d turned his face away to the window, lips drawn tight.

Dean’s knuckles were pale where they gripped the steering wheel. His ears roared with the memory of the unearthly sounds of agony Castiel had made when Zachariah ripped him away. Dean wanted to say thank you but the words stuck at the back of his throat, inadequate.

Mary turned around in her seat. “Thank you for saving my son, Castiel. I know it might not make up for what you’ve lost—” Castiel made a tiny, tremulous sound, “—but thank you all the same.” She stretched out a hand.

Castiel eyed Mary’s hand anxiously. “I can’t accept thanks for something I don’t remember doing, Mary. Zachariah took many things from me.”

“Then I’ll take back my thanks if it turns out it isn’t true,” Mary said matter-of-factly.

They shook hands.

“Your son is a marvel, Mary,” Castiel said, so softly that Dean almost missed it. His voice was low with honesty, but there was an edge of pain that made Dean’s jaw tighten.

This wasn’t where Dean had expected the day to go but there were buoys in the storm he could hold on to. Dean’s reality had shifted sideways – now he knew that Castiel was a former angel, Mary was a former hunter, and he was just some guy caught up in it all – but he also knew that he’d rather try swimming with the riptide than just drown.

“Mom,” Dean said. “Are all creatures sensitive to rock salt or is it just some of ‘em?”

Mary’s voice cracked on her protesting, “Dean—”

“Tell me,” Dean said. “Please.”

  


* * *

  
Their destination was Singer’s Salvage Yard, the home base of a hunter named Robert “Bobby” Singer. He was a long-time friend of the Harvelles and the occasional reluctant comrade-in-arms of the Campbell’s. He’d never met Mary before, since she’d left the hunting world before Bobby joined it, but he knew of her. The ripples left behind by Campbells were wide and enduring.

When they entered the compound, Dean had the thought that the Salvage Yard looked like the kind of place that he, a mechanic in a line of mechanics, wouldn’t have minded working at. If he were here for any other reason, he’d be nosing around curiously, so it was strange when he realized that the people who were the world’s foot soldiers in shadow could also have day jobs not too different from Dean’s own.

This duality was driven home when Mary stepped forward to greet Bobby, a confident hand offered and accepted. “Mary Winchester,” she said, slipping back into old shoes. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You took down that werewolf pack back East, nice work.”

“I had help,” Bobby said, accepting the praise with a curt nod. “Sorry for sending the girls out your way. I know you’re not in the game anymore, but people still remember you. Figured you might want to know what’s happening.”

“I understand,” Mary said. “Jo explained about the patterns and that you’re the one who noticed that Lawrence didn’t have any. It was a good call. If it’s something that big, I’d want to know about it as well.”

“Hey, come in.” Bobby beckoned them inside. “There’s not much space, but you’re welcome to it.”

“We need to ward this place against angels,” Castiel announced immediately. “Your protections are excellent, but insufficient.”

Dean’s civilian eyes couldn’t see any protections besides the hungry-looking dogs out in the yard. He sat to the side, an observant fifth wheel while Castiel showed the others what had to be done, what the protective markings looked like and how they could be added to the protections already there. Dean helped where he could, offering his arm for blood-letting and ignoring Mary’s pained protest at the gesture.

Once the place was warded to Castiel’s satisfaction, Jo said, “How about we show them the maps?”

Bobby’s War Room was impressive. There was an understated elegance to the collage of information that decorated its walls: maps and newspaper clippings and internet articles, with string and post-its connecting the pieces. It meant very little to Dean, but Mary saw patterns almost immediately, sharp eyes scanning the materials.

“We’ve been tracking it for almost a year,” Bobby said. “Didn’t think it was anything at first, but then it just kept going. Now I can’t get by a day without getting calls ‘bout creatures freaking out like rats in a ship. Now we’ve got the weather acting up like a drunk at an open bar all over the damn planet. Monsters, we can fight, but monsoons?”

“But what does this mean?” Castiel asked, pointing at a map covered with pins. Lawrence had been circled in red ink. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Bobby figured something was up in Lawrence so we checked it out,” Jo said. “You were the only anomaly we could find.”

“You fell here,” Dean said, pointing to a blue pin set on Platte Falls. “I mean, your Grace, or whatever it is, it’s still there. I saw it, I think.”

“You saw the place my Grace _was_ ,” Castiel said. “But it’s not there anymore. I’ve looked.”

There was too much they didn’t know yet, too many assumptions that had to be made to get here at all. The hunters knew their game well but angels were new and strange, which made Bobby decide to hit his books for lore he’d never had to touch before.

“We could ask Anna,” Dean suggested. Castiel flashed him a quick, skeptical look. “No?”

“Actually, that could be useful,” Mary said thoughtfully. “We just need to protect ourselves. That banishing sigil would work on an angel like her, right, if we needed to use it?”

It was a flimsy plan but the opportunity to get new information was better than doing nothing at all. They decided that they’d contact Anna the next day after a good night’s sleep. It had been a long day for everyone and if they were going to willingly talk face-to-face with an angel – her properties and powers unknown to them – it would be best done with a fresh mind and body.

That was how Dean found himself bunking down in Bobby Singer’s living room and arguing with Castiel over who would get the couch.

“I’m used to sleeping on hard surfaces,” Castiel said, pulling the blanket from Dean’s hands.

“All the more reason why it should be me,” Dean said, trying to grab the blanket back.

Gwen’s kissing noises made them shut up. Dean rolled his eyes and flipped the bird at her, while Castiel busied himself laying the blanket out on the floor. Jo was kinder, smiling sympathetically at Dean before smacking Gwen’s shoulder and dragging her upstairs.

“Get some rest,” Mary told them both and then adjourned for sleep as well.

Dean made himself at home on Bobby’s couch which wasn’t too uncomfortable as other hunters had used it for the same purpose over the years. Even so, sleep seemed almost impossible under the weight of the day’s revelations. He turned on his side and studied the back of Castiel’s head where he was curled up on the floor.

After a long stretch of silence where Castiel tried to pretend he was asleep and Dean saw right through it, Dean said, “It’s okay to hate me.” He was a little shocked that he’d said that out loud.

Castiel sighed, shoulders shifting under the blanket. “I don’t hate you,” he murmured. “I didn’t push you away because I hate you.”

“Huh? No – _no_ ,” Dean said quickly. “I totally get why you freaked out on me. I understand why you were going to leave. That’s fine.”

“That’s fine?” Castiel said incredulously. He rolled ever, glaring at Dean in disbelief. “I was going to leave. I _had_ left, packed up my things and gone, without saying goodbye, without explaining anything. And that’s _fine_?”

“I was pissed about that, yeah,” Dean admitted, “But it’s not like I could’ve guessed you’re an angel with a shitload of baggage.”

“Former angel,” Castiel corrected.

“Exactly.”

There was a pause while that statement sunk into Castiel’s head. “Oh,” he said flatly. “Yes. I should hate you for something _I_ did.” The _don’t be stupid_ at the end of that sentence remained unspoken, but Dean heard it anyway.

“If it weren’t for me,” Dean protested, “You’d still be—”

“No,” Castiel said. “Stop.”

“But—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Castiel said, rising up to press his fingers to Dean’s mouth. “Please.”

It was that combination of touch and plaintive _please_ that did Dean in. He’d set up an elaborate scenario in his head of what Castiel had done and couldn’t understand why Castiel didn’t loathe him.

“You are the…” Castiel pulled his fingers away guiltily. He turned aside, but even in the dim light Dean could catch the conflict on face. “Because of you, I thought that it would be all right.”

“What would be all right?” Dean asked.

“Being human,” Castiel confessed, fingers clutching the edge of the blanket. “I hated it, Dean, everything about it, everything I had to do, all the laws inside and out that I had to obey to survive at all. I know that sounds terrible but you must remember, I was an _angel_ , and then I wasn’t anymore, and they wouldn’t even let me remember why. But then…” Castiel shrugged helplessly. “But then there was you.”

The confession made Dean think back to Castiel’s first minor freak out, where he’d declared _I hate this house, I hate this town, I hate being stuck here like an invalid._ Dean hadn’t known the context, but he’d understood anger and frustration.

“You made me feel like everything would be all right,” Castiel said. “That I could be human for the rest of my life and that’d be okay.”

“That’s changed now?”

Castiel looked at him sharply, reading between the lines of Dean’s shaky smile. “Why do you do that, Dean?” He rose up on to his knees, hands cupping Dean’s face. “Why do you keep setting yourself up that way?”

Dean wasn’t prepared for Castiel to kiss him, bold and open-mouthed. Once the shock passed, Dean kissed back and Castiel sped up to match him, both of them relieved that this was still possible. Now Castiel’s secrets were no longer hidden, their mutual knowing and acceptance of each other made the meet of their bodies inevitable.

They crawled under the blankets together, touching and kissing and groping in the dark. For a few minutes that was enough until Castiel started squirming restlessly underneath Dean, demanding more.

“Shh, we gotta be quiet,” Dean said, remembering where they were and who else was in the house.

Castiel sighed, head falling back to the floor. “Yes. Yes, this was poorly thought out.” He rut up against Dean’s hip anyway, choking back a gasp of frustration.

For a moment Dean felt like he was a teenager again, trying to keep quiet so not to bring John and Mary down on his head. The absurdity of that made him chuckle, and he chuckled even more when he saw Castiel’s expression – affronted and aroused was an interesting mix. Dean pressed his nose to Castiel’s cheek, breathing in his scent. “This is so fucking crazy.”

“I know,” Castiel said quietly. His fingers carded through Dean’s short hair, guiding his face so they were looking at each other. “I want to stay with you, Dean. I don’t know what’ll happen, but if it all turns out all right, I’d like to stay.”

Dean sighed. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s not a promise,” Castiel said, apologetic but honest. “I can’t promise anything.”

Dean smiled ruefully. “Yeah. I know.” But Dean didn’t want to think about that too closely, not with Castiel’s hard-on rubbing against his thigh. He pressed his face into Castiel’s neck, sighing with frustration. “Ah, fuck, bad idea. I didn’t bring anything.”

“Dean.” Castiel squeezed his arm. “There’s the bathroom?”

The first floor bathroom, which only technically qualified as a bathroom because it had a toilet and sink, was their agreed destination. Two grown men squeezing in together was hardly practical, but Dean decided that practicality was for the birds. He deemed that this was illicit, hot, and way worth it when Castiel pushed him to the wall and sunk down to his knees, determined to suck Dean off.

Dean bit down on his knuckles to keep himself from making too much noise, Castiel’s mouth demanding around his cock. After he’d spent himself it was Castiel’s turn, where Dean crowded him against the door and jacked him off slowly, using both hands to tease out his orgasm and kissing Castiel’s panting mouth through it.

Castiel had a soft, almost goofy look on his face when he came down from his climax. Dean observed it with amusement, thinking that it would be great if they had more time for this. More time to learn the way their bodies could fit together – the way their lives could fit together – if they had the chance. Dean wasn’t entirely idealistic, and he was aware that it was just as likely that they’d drive each other crazy and call it all off in a month or two, but at least they’d know.

“A former angel, huh,” Dean said, tucking Castiel’s softening cock back into his pants. “Just my luck.”

“A virgin, too,” Castiel added helpfully, pressing a kiss to Dean’s chin. “Previously, anyway.”

“Go me,” Dean said. And then he pulled Castiel back with him to the living room where they slid back underneath the blankets and fell asleep.

  


* * *

  
Dean woke up with a sore arm, irritable and disoriented by his strange surroundings. Bobby’s living room swirled into focus slowly and Dean had the soon-to-be-ironic thought that surely the world didn’t have any more curve balls to throw his way.

Castiel was snoring against Dean’s collarbone. Gwen was eating a bowl of cereal and watching them from the couch.

“Motherfuck,” Dean slurred, head thumping the floor in surprise. “Goddammit, we’re related, don’t be creepy.”

“Twice removed, so does it really count?” She kicked at Dean’s calf. “Get up, hotshot, we’ve got things to do.”

“Breakfast!” Bobby called out from the kitchen. “Gwen, stop messing with them.”

Dean shook Castiel awake, waving away Castiel’s clumsy apology for drooling all over his shirt. There were things to deal with, starting with the breakfast of champions that Bobby had prepared for them. He was a good cook, used to working on tight budgets and doing well with limited resources.

“This is the good shit,” Jo told them. “Dig in.”

“Any news on the wire, Bobby?” Gwen asked.

“Nothing much on the weather channel, actually,” Bobby said. “That’s slowed down, but got a call about goblins going berserk in Victoria. Same old, same old, I guess. Eat up, boy, it’s not poisoned.”

“Victoria?” Dean said, fork pausing halfway to his mouth. “You’re international, too?”

“Sometimes,” Bobby said. “There’s no hard and fast rules for hunting and frankly, most of us are making it up as we go along.”

“Yeah, my mom said as much,” Dean said, while Castiel eyed him curiously. “It’s usually every hunter for themselves, except when it isn’t, and loyalty runs deeper than blood.” He laughed. “That makes it sound like there’s a freaking war going on.”

“There is,” Gwen said, leveling a stare at Dean. “Every damn day. The world would fall apart without us and most of ‘em don’t even know we, or what we hunt, exist at all.”

“So,” Dean drawled, slanting a look at Jo, “All that friendly talk back at my store was part of making sure the world wouldn’t fall apart?”

Jo started in surprise, and then laughed. “Sure, whatever floats your boat, Winchester.” She winked, while Castiel rolled his eyes and Dean shoved at his elbow gleefully. Jo added, a little more somberly, “We’re still human, we make our good times where we can.”

“Makes up for the other parts of the job,” Gwen said. “Though I say killing things is its own reward.”

“We ain’t all good guys,” Bobby said, shooting a sharp look at Gwen. “And most of us won’t know noble if it jumped up our asses.”

“That, I’ll agree with, Master Singer.” Gwen raised her cup of coffee in a salute. “Some of the nastiest sons of bitches I know are hunters.”

“But Gwen,” Jo said sweetly, “It’s not nice to talk about your brothers that way.”

That started an argument between Gwen and Jo while Bobby groaned and rolled his eyes. Dean half-listened while he dove into breakfast, one ear open to the little twists in their lingo that betrayed the fact that they were part of a different world, governed by an almost entirely different set of rules.

“Dean,” Castiel said quietly, close to his shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?” Dean asked.

“You’re thinking that this might be what you’ve been waiting for.”

“I’m not…” Dean couldn’t finish his protest, not when Castiel’s gaze was steady and knowing. “Fine, maybe. But look, these guys – they _do_ stuff. They make a difference.”

“You already make a difference, Dean,” Castiel said. “You do it all the time. Just because it’s not in the big ways, that doesn’t mean it isn’t important.”

Dean snorted. “That is such bullshit, I don’t even know where to start.”

Castiel’s expression softened. “Dean, your mother left this life. Doesn’t that tell you what you need to know?”

“Bad stuff happened to her,” Dean pointed out. He thought about his maternal grandparents whom he’d never met and whose deaths had been Mary’s last straw. He couldn’t mourn people he didn’t know, but when he tried to imagine losing his own parents, something inside him _twisted_ and he just couldn’t. “Anyone should be free to walk away from that.” He glanced up suddenly. “Where is my mother, anyway?”

“Oh, she went to get some things from your car,” Jo said. She glanced at her watch. “It’s taking her a while, though.”

Dean offered to check on her, and that’s what he did. He downed the last of his coffee, got up from the table, and followed the path out to where the Impala had been parked the night before.

Unknown to the group having breakfast, Mary Winchester had been being detained by matters outside their predictions. While Dean and Castiel had been settling down for their meal, Mary had been standing by the Impala in the cool morning air and staring pensively at her cellphone.

By the time Dean arrived at that very same spot, Mary was gone. In her stead was John Winchester, who smiled at the sight of Dean.

“Dad?” Dean’s steps faltered. “What’re you doing here?”

“Your mother called,” John said, which was the truth. Mary had called him out of worry, remembering how she’d stood him up despite her intentions to try again. “It’s good to see you.”

This statement didn’t make Dean feel any better. John’s posture was slightly off, his expression cool. “Where’s Mom?” Dean asked.

“Dean,” John said in that same benevolent tone. He stepped forward to touch him and Dean flinched at the strong-palmed grip on his shoulder. “You’re always worrying about other people, aren’t you?”

There was no finite way to describe how Dean knew that this wasn’t his father. Something in his head screamed an alarm and he took a quick step back, pulling free from John’s grip. “Where are my parents?” Dean demanded. He realized that they were standing outside the warded area.

“Don’t you want to help them?” John, who was not John, asked. “Your mother, your father, your brother?”

“Sam?” Dean said, choking on a rush of fear. “What what have you done with Sam?”

“Nothing, yet,” he said. “Oh, he’s fine, Dean, no need worry. He’s having the time of his life with that beautiful wife of his – Jessica, isn’t it?”

“You leave them alone.”

“I would like to.” The benign smile was replaced by an expression that was far more solemn, yet still not at all John-like. “I would love to.”

“There’s a ‘but’ there,” Dean said. “You want something.”

“So do you, Dean.” The eyes that bore into Dean’s were far older and more knowing than John’s had ever been. “This is your father’s body but he’s just a temporary measure. I will keep him, unless I have an alternative. Wouldn’t you help him, if you could?”

Dean’s mouth fell open, a _yes_ waiting on his tongue.

His family was everything. It didn’t seem too much to ask for Dean to give what he had so that his family would be safe.

Even so, Dean’s _yes_ stilled, unspoken. He recalled vividly Mary’s confession from the night before, sadness and self-hate in every word as she spoke of a manipulated betrayal. She hadn’t meant it as a cautionary tale but that was its function now, Dean’s stomach twisting at the thought of dangerous beings that turned people’s wants into weapons.

“How?” Dean said.

“By taking his place,” he said. “Your whole family will be safe, I promise.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Dean said, working up a cocky smile. “Nice try, though. I like the part how you can define ‘family’ and ‘safe’ any way you want, and that’s only assuming you were even telling the truth in the first place.”

John shook his head, smiling sadly. “You can’t escape, Dean, this is—”

A gunshot rent the air, the bullet piercing a fence post.

The thing that wasn’t John turned sharply, the fluidity of movement just a touch inhuman, like a bird of prey on alert. Dean followed John’s gaze to the ground where Mary had rolled out from where she’d been previously lying unconscious, and was now aiming Dean’s gun at John.

There was blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, but her hands were steady. “Let him go.”

“You won’t shoot him,” John’s mouth said around a pleasant smile. “Not the love of your life. Not when he still loves you.” John’s hand moved to rest on his sternum. “I can feel it here, as steady as his heartbeat.”

The gun remained true, though Mary’s expression wavered. “He’s still… he’s in there?”

“Of course,” was the affronted reply. “He will be good as new when I leave, but not if you shoot that gun.”

“Is this a demon?” Dean asked his mother.

“Don’t know.” Mary slowly got to her feet, gun still trained on John’s chest. “This one asked for your permission, and demons don’t need that.”

“John said yes because he loves you,” said the creature wearing John’s skin. Mary shuddered at the softness of John’s voice, craving the return of its true owner. “Mary, I only told John the truth. You and your children are in danger. This way, he can protect you.”

Dean snorted.

Approaching footsteps announced the arrival of Jo and Castiel, the former armed with a sawed-off shotgun and the latter having refused to sit quietly in the house while they checked out the source of the gunshot. Bobby and Gwen were coming around in a flanking position, unseen to Dean and Mary.

“Castiel,” said not-John in surprise. He shook his head in disbelief, smiling wryly. “Zachariah neglected to mention that you’d escaped his clutches. I should tend to that.”

Castiel scowled fiercely in an effort to remember. “You… brother? Michael?”

“Very good,” Michael said dryly. He studied his fallen brother, making no effort to hide his disdain. “It would be a kindness to kill you now.” He raised a hand.

“If it weren’t for Cas, I’d be dead right now,” Dean said quickly. “You don’t want that.”

Michael’s face went dark, an inch of his true power bleeding through the limitations of John’s flesh. “You don’t have a clue what I want, Dean. What I want is bigger than this. Bigger than you or Castiel or even me.”

“I don’t...” The wonderment on Castiel’s face crumpled into disappointment. “Zachariah answers to _you_?”

Dean caught Mary’s eye. She nodded and fired a warning shot to John’s shoulder, catching Michael’s attention while Dean dropped to the ground, ripping the bandage off his arm and digging his nails into the previous night’s cuts.

Jo and Bobby and Gwen joined the gun fight, as futile as it was against an angel that felt no pain of the flesh and could heal its host with no cost. Its only success was to give Dean more time, gathering enough blood to scratch a banishing sigil on a piece of scrap metal and slam his hand down on it.

“That’s enough,” Michael said. He casually moved two fingers in the air, and all the humans who weren’t Dean collapsed, out cold. They were armed, but to Michael, unimportant, and so now the yard was quiet except for Dean’s rapid breathing.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered.

“Sorry, but that doesn’t work,” Michael said. Another casual air-flick of two fingers turned the sigil into a mess. “I’m a little more powerful than that.”

Dean backed up against a fence stump when Michael approached but there was nowhere to escape.

Michael crouched down so their faces were level. Dean had thought that Castiel’s stare had been unreal but being the focus of Michael’s was like being buried alive, the sheer presence of him squeezing all around Dean. Michael was a creature whose experiences were near immeasurable, and never again would Dean feel this insignificant and powerless.

“You’re not ready,” Michael said, disappointed. “I had hoped, but…” He sighed and rose back to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for a long time. I suppose I can wait a little longer.”

“I’m not _ready_?” Dean asked incredulously, angry again now that Michael’s unearthly presence was a tolerable distance away. “What am I, a pot roast?”

“Everything has its time and place,” Michael said. “Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again.”

“Wait!” Dean shouted. “You give my father back.”

“He’s safer where he is, trust me,” Michael said, plucking curiously at John’s sleeves. “Or don’t trust me, it doesn’t matter. I’ll keep him until you’re ready.”

Michael disappeared with a soft thunderclap, taking Dean’s father with him. It was true that John was in safer hands while being used by an Archangel (he would not be injured and was out of the way of others who would use him in more harmful ways), but even if Dean had that knowledge, it would not have been a comfort. John was gone.

Mary and the others stirred awake and sat up slowly, no longer kept unconscious by Michael’s will. Dean checked that Mary and Jo were all right, and then was grabbed by a wild-eyed Castiel.

“It was never about me,” Castiel said, his fingers dancing restlessly over Dean’s skin as though trying to decipher him through touch. “It’s about you, it was always about you. Your mother is a hunter, your father is a vessel. I saved your life because you’re _important._ ” Castiel cupped his face, trying to will Dean’s secrets out into the open. “Who are you, Dean?”

“I’m no one,” Dean protested. He lifted his gaze over Castiel’s shoulder to where Mary was staring at him mutely, terror and sadness in her eyes. Dean swallowed nervously. “I’m nobody, I’m just a schmuck _._ ”

“Michael, as in, _Michael_ Michael?” Gwen asked. “The Biblical Archangel?”

“We’ve never seen angels before,” Jo said. “If that only means that they haven’t been around for a while, why would they come back now?”

Bobby snorted. Then he guffawed loudly the way a man would upon having laid eyes on his doom. He said clearly, “And at that time shall Michael rise up, the great prince who stands for the children of your people.”

“No,” Gwen said. “Is that what’s been happening? Is that what we’ve been seeing?”

“I don’t…?” Dean trailed off.

“The end of the world, Dean,” Castiel said. “Michael is a warrior for God at the End of Times.”

They were not incorrect.

  


* * *

  
There were many ways to react to the knowledge that the world was running on a finite amount of time. In the case of Dean Winchester, who had not been religious to begin with, he sorted this information into manageable pockets of understanding.

He didn’t panic or weep or fall into a frenzy of denial. After all, he had just learned in quick succession that supernatural creatures were real and his mother had a history of hunting them down, that angels were real and he’d slept with one, and that angels could possess the bodies of innocent bystanders and had done precisely that with his father. The prospect of the world ending was a mere cherry on top, though not the last of revelations he was going to have.

Dean’s first action, once they’d returned to the safety of Bobby’s house, was to call Sam.

“Voice mail.” Dean’s fingers clenched tight around his cell. “Fuck.”

Mary took a deep breath. She’d had near thirty decades of peace only to be sucked back in now, this time, her family dragged in with her. Standing on the knife’s edge again, she centered herself and forced her mind and body to remember the lessons she’d been brought up with. “Bobby, do you know any hunters in Palo Alto?”

“I can ask,” Bobby said. They went to his call center in search of someone who could help them locate Sam.

The question remained: how were they to proceed? For the hunters, there was no precedent for this, no advice at hand about what should be done. Neither Mary and Bobby – the veterans, nor Jo and Gwen — the innovative ones in their prime, had anything concrete to offer.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be the experts?” Dean demanded, breaking the silence in Bobby’s study where they’d gathered for research. “I mean – this is what you guys _do_ , right? You handle this crazy shit on a daily basis.”

“It isn’t like that,” Jo said. She was on her second cup of Irish coffee, a heavy tome on apocalyptic lore open in front of her. “I’ve been hunting all my life but I wouldn’t say that I’ve seen everything. You’re a… what are you?”

“Technically?” Dean shrugged. “A mechanic, I guess.”

“Would you know how to fix every single machine ever made?”

“You can’t compare that,” Dean said with a derisive snort. “That’s just something I do, that’s not who I am. All of this? Angels and blood magic and the fucking end of the world? Wouldn’t that be Tuesday to you, or something?”

“Hey, don’t you get on our cases because we don’t have a magic wand to make it all go away,” Gwen snapped.

Castiel chimed up with an irritated, “This isn’t helping.”

“What would you like to do, Cas?” Dean shouted. “Do you need help? I’d love to help!”

“Please stop yelling at me,” Castiel said. He was not poring through Bobby’s books the way the others were, but had set up camp in front of Jo’s laptop. He paused in his furious clicking to level a studious look at Dean. “Thank you.”

“The end of the world,” Jo said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I guess we should just be lucky the skies haven’t fallen yet.”

“I don’t think that’s literal,” Castiel said slowly. He closed his eyes briefly, sighing in frustration. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. I _know_ I used to know all of this, but everything’s blocked to me. I can feel the knowledge just out of reach, taunting me. If only there was a way to tap into it.”

“Well, do you at least know if Satan is real?” Gwen asked.

Castiel puffed up a little, proud. “Lucifer is real, definitely.”

“Fucking hell,” Gwen murmured. “Even demons don’t believe in the Big D.”

“Why should that matter?” Dean asked. “What you guys do – _hunting_ – it all comes down to going after supernatural creatures with guns blazing, right? So we go after Lucifer with guns blazing.”

Jo and Gwen exchanged another long look. “It’s not always that simple,” Jo said.

“There!” Castiel said suddenly. He rose out from his chair, jabbing a finger at Jo’s laptop screen. “We need to go there.” They crowded around the laptop, where Castiel had pulled up a map to a hotel. “There is something holy there. I was supposed to be there to protect it.”

“A weapon?” Jo asked. She clicked around a little but was unable to find anything interesting about the building itself.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted, but he was undeterred. “I must go there.”

They called Mary and Bobby back, and though Bobby didn’t like Castiel’s inability to offer more than a _feeling_ that he had to be there, Mary shrugged and said, “It could be nothing, it could be a trap, it could even be the literal Holy Grail at this point. But it’s the end of the world and we have nothing else to go on.”

“Then let’s do it,” Dean said.

So the decision was made that they would go, armed to the teeth as much as was possible. Bobby declined to follow as he had other responsibilities, but he helped them prep up and ward the cars. Mary spoke very little but she eyed Dean warily when he poked around the trunk of Jo’s car.

Dean whistled. “Looks like a weapons depot threw up in here.”

“Your father’s ex-marine, right?” Jo said, dropping a rifle into his hand.

“Cool.” Dean checked the chamber and then hefted the weapon in both hands, enjoying its weight. It had been a while since he’d gone hunting with his father but he could acutely imagine John standing over him, fixing his grip and telling him to stand up straight. Sam would be pouting somewhere nearby, determined to find his books more interesting than anything they were doing.

Dean lifted the rifle up to his shoulder and looked down its sights. Angels could not be harmed by mere bullets but just holding a weapon in his hands made him feel calm. He nodded his satisfaction and passed the gun back to her. “Thanks. That’s pretty sweet.”

“Hey, Winchester,” Gwen said. Before Dean could respond with _Hey, Campbell_ , she’dclipped a long silver chain to his belt. The links were sturdy, its function not just for show. “This stuff’s near as pure as silver can get, and here at the end? Holy water. You know what that’s for?”

“Oh.” Dean palmed the vial curiously and then slipped it into his jeans pocket. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Every little bit helps,” Gwen said. “C’mon, Jo, let’s get going.”

There was a buzz under Dean’s skin as he slid smoothly into the Impala’s driver seat. It was excitement and fear mixed up into each other, coupled with the fact that for the first time in his life, he had no idea what was going to happen in his immediate future. He trailed his hands over the Impala’s steering wheel, the car purring to life around them. “Cas, you know where we’re going?”

In the backseat, Castiel didn’t look up from where he was writing supplemental notes into a King James Bible, but gamely waved the map printout at Dean.

Mary snapped her cellphone shut. “Still getting Sam’s voice mail. Bobby’s got some people looking for him but there’s no point worrying about something we can’t control or take care of right now.”

“If it’s real, we can fight it,” Dean said. “That’s what you said, right?”

Mary regarded Dean for a long moment and then passed him a knife in its leather sheath. “Keep that on you. I’ve loaded up the back with a couple of shotguns and rock salt shells but you should have something on you at all times.”

“And I have my Glock.” Dean accepted the knife and was amused to find a price tag still on the handle. “You got this from the store?”

“Gwen, actually,” Mary said wryly. “But I convinced her to pay for it.”

“Heh.” Dean slipped the knife into his jacket. It was a tight fit, which made Dean wonder if Jo and Gwen’s huge jackets were chosen for their usefulness in hiding everything they brought around with them. “We’re going to try our damned best to fix this. I know we are.”

Mary, who knew far better than Dean what they stood to lose, cupped his chin. “And then we’re going home.” She leaned back into her seat, snapping the seatbelt in place. “If the world doesn’t end, of course.”

“Amen,” Castiel said.

That made Mary smile. “Let’s get going.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, and they hit the road.

  


* * *

  
A day’s journey passed quickly. No supernatural creatures crossed their path and the weather remained on their side. The pit stops they made along the way were few and brief, during which Dean had the opportunity to watch Gwen do some minor hustling, and Mary got news from their connections in Palo Alto that they hadn’t been able to find Sam and Jess yet.

At their one and only gas station stop, Dean went to the men’s room, where he pulled out his cell to reread Anna’s messages. Castiel was still against the idea of contacting her due to their encounters with Zachariah and Michael, but Dean didn’t think of her as an enemy. He sent her a message: HOW CAN I TRUST YOU?

A few minutes later, after he’d finished up and washed his hands, Dean got a reply. LTTLE BZ. B SAFE STAY HIDDN WLL CALL LATR

Dean snorted.

He returned outside to where both cars were fueled up and ready to go. Mary and Castiel were standing together against the Impala, their backs to him. Dean approached just slow enough to catch the end of their conversation.

“What’s it like, being human?” Mary was asking. “After being something else for the rest of your life?”

“Truly? It’s quiet.” Castiel tilted his head up to look at the sky, though his human eyes only gave him the sight of grey clouds. “Maybe if this life were all I’d ever known then I wouldn’t miss it. But as it is, I remember what it was to be intimately connected to my brothers and sisters. When I hit the earth, flesh and entirely human, the first thing that got to me was the silence.”

“Which is probably why you like Dean,” Mary said.

Castiel huffed with soft laughter. “He is noisy, that’s true.” He glanced at her consideringly. “But you’re different. You enjoy the quiet you’ve chosen for yourself.”

“Was it a choice, though? I wanted out, yes, and my boys have good lives now—” her voice cracked a little, “—but I wouldn’t have left like that.”

“The deal,” Castiel said, nodding with understanding. “It stayed with you, followed every choice you made.”

“I could have done better, I think,” Mary said, though she was more thoughtful than bitter. “Instead of cutting it all away, maybe I could’ve prepared them a little more. Found a balance somehow, with them and with John.”

“Hey guys, we’re good to go,” Dean said loudly. Castiel slipped back into the Impala but before Mary could do the same, Dean said, “Mom. I think you did good by us, with what you had.”

Mary chortled softly. “I think you’re a little bit biased, Dean.”

“Damn straight I am,” Dean replied.

They drove, completing the final stretch to their destination without incident.

Castiel had, for the most part, been a polite passenger, but his excitement and restlessness grew the closer they got to their final target. By the time Dean parked the Impala, Castiel’s fingers were squeezing like claws into his shoulder.

“Dude, chill,” Dean said, shaking his hand off.

But Castiel’s eyes were bright as he gazed upon the building beyond. “We’re here.”

The hotel itself was no more holy than the Impala. It was a pleasant-enough building, only a few floors tall and tucked cozily between trees that hadn’t been too adversely affected by county’s dry spell.

The group took what items they felt were necessary for their safety and then congregated for council.

“What are we looking for?” Mary asked.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Castiel said. “I truly apologize, but that’s all I know.”

“Looks like there’s a party going on inside,” Gwen said. She drew their attention to the group of noisy people that was entering the front doors. “Crowds can be difficult and we can’t bring in too much stuff.”

“But it’ll be easy to mingle in,” Jo pointed out. “Let’s go.”

“Wait wait wait,” Dean said. “Don’t we need a… front, or something? A story?”

“Why use a story when the truth works just fine?” Mary said. “We’re a family on a road trip. We passed by the hotel, saw the crowd, and thought we’d check it out.”

There were too many people in the hotel’s lobby for anyone to care about a couple of new arrivals, so they slipped into the enthusiastic crowd easily. Dean drank in the atmosphere which reminded him of a cross between bake sales back home and that one time Sam had dragged him to Comic-con, except there was a disproportionately large number of leather jackets in the room.

Dean did not notice what Mary, Jo and Gwen did almost immediately. There was something unusual with this picture, of which the three hunters immediately tried to decipher in their own individual ways. Jo made a bee-line for a small gathering on the other side of the lobby, Gwen started following people and listening in to their conversations, and Mary looked around for someone in charge.

While the hunters worked their angles with purpose, to Dean it was just like any other crowd of typical talkative folk, bonded together by common interest. He was more interested in keeping an eye on Castiel, who was moving through the room with a slightly glazed expression. Occasionally Dean would be jostled by someone, so he’d move, taking one random step after another in an attempt to not be too obvious about his loitering.

He eventually ended up a registration table and the woman sitting there perked up. “Name, please?”

“Dean,” said Dean, who didn’t have a hunter’s immediate inclination to lie.

Her lips twitched. “Really?” she said. “Haven’t heard that one before. Can’t say you’re dressed the part, though.”

Dean blinked. “What?” He glanced around quickly in search of back-up. “Uh, Mom?”

“Hi,” Mary said brightly, sliding to Dean’s side with a warm smile. “My son’s new at this, don’t mind him.”

The woman looked thoughtful for a moment, and then her eyes went wide with surprise. “Dean and Mary?” She broke out into a huge grin. “Oh! Oh my god, you’re doing a _What Is and What Should Never Be_! I’m so sorry I didn’t see that, this has got to be the first. Kudos to you!”

“Thank you,” Mary said smoothly, rolling with the line. “We didn’t just want to do the same-old, same-old, you know how it is. Especially since it’s the second convention, and everyone’s going to go for the typical.”

“I hear you there. I’ve lost count of how many Sams and Deans I’ve seen so far today,” she said. Over her shoulder were posters on the wall that declared that it was, indeed, the Second Annual Supernatural Convention. “I still need your real names for registration, though you’re a little late, aren’t you? The opening’s over but there’s still plenty more to see. Oh, and there’s a cover charge for walk-ins.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, appearing at Dean’s other side. He was clutching a convention flyer and practically glowing. “This is it.”

Mary’s eyes were all business when she nodded at Castiel, but her friendly showman’s smile for the registration lady never wavered. “How much is the cover charge, again? Yes, I’ll be paying for five people? Thank you.”

“What is and what should never be?” Dean said, once they’d paid and walked away. “What is that, some kind of hunter slang? And what the hell did she mean, Sams and Deans?” In a moment of irony missed by all, Dean bumped into the shoulder of a con-goer dressed in dark shirts, a leather jacket, and an amulet prop hanging from a string around his neck. Dean quickly apologized, “Sorry, man.”

“It’s cool,” said the con-goer. He went back to talking to his companion who was dressed in plaid and had hair extensions.

“C’mon,” Mary said. The conversation they were to have needed as much privacy as was possible in a public area, so Mary drew them to an empty space by the wall. She turned to Castiel first, asking, “What is it?”

“There is a holy text here,” Castiel declared. He passed the flyer over and Mary unfolded it so that she and Dean could read it together.

In dramatic white text against a black background was the title: ‘CELEBRATING CARVER EDLUND’S SUPERNATURAL.’ Below that was a paragraph describing Carver Edlund’s _Supernatural_ books, a series of novels chronicling the adventures of brothers Sam and Dean, who traveled in their ’67 Impala on an epic road trip where they hunted things and saved people.

“What in the fuck?” Dean said.

“Holy canoly, you guys,” Gwen said, shoving into their group. Her grin had an unnerved edge, which was a reasonable reaction to a bizarre discovery. “We have officially entered the Twilight Zone. Check it out.”

She tossed two paperbacks up into the air, Mary and Dean catching one each. Castiel eagerly pushed in close to Dean’s side, peering at the book and touching the cover reverentially.

“Scarecrow,” Dean read the title aloud. The synopsis on the back was like that of an innocuous B-movie he wouldn’t have minded watching on a lazy Sunday afternoon, but the names hovered in Dean’s vision, making it hard for him to focus at all. At Castiel’s insistent poking, he flipped through the book, countless more Sams and Deans staring up at him from the pages.

“Where’d you get these?” Mary asked.

“They’re selling a bunch of ‘em over there,” Gwen said, canting her head to one of the stalls that had been set up in the lobby. A young man was manning the stall, and a small stack of books was set up next to the register. Gwen added, “But I snagged these from someone, no big.”

Jo was a little more excited when she found them. “They have Devil’s Trap tattoos. _Stick-ons_!” She pointed at her cheek, already adorned with one such sticker. “What is going on here?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Mary said. She passed out the convention wristbands and then slapped one on herself. “Put these on. We’re going in.”

“We’re going _in_?” Dean echoed. “In there?”

“A prophet wrote these,” Castiel said. The glint in his eye made Dean wary, but Castiel was riding high. “This is the word of the Lord. All the answers we need are right here.”

“The Lord writes pulp?” Dean looked at the book cover dubiously, and was relieved that the illustrated Sam and Dean looked nothing like him and his brother. “Paperback pulp with the art of a ten-year-old who’s just discovered Photoshop?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to debate the medium of religion with you, Dean.” He grabbed Dean’s wrist and tied the wristband for him. “We need to explore.”

“This is how it’s going to go,” Mary said, glancing at each of them in turn. “Don’t wander off, keep your phones close, and get as much info as you can. We’re not going to figure out what’s going on if we’re going to gawk all day, so talk and listen. I’m going to find out who the organizers are.”

They dispersed, Mary shooting off in a line for the con staff. Dean panicked for about two seconds at the idea of mingling with book nerds, but then Castiel grabbed his arm and dragged him into the main hall.

“You’re buying me the _Supernatural_ books,” Castiel said, stopping in front of a more extensive sales booth.

Dean started. “I am? Oh, I am. Wait, all of them?”

“No, that would be impractical,” Castiel said ruefully. He scanned the list of titles that had been propped up on the counter but it wasn’t helpful. “Hello. What are the most important books? It terms of importance?”

The salesperson leaned forward, eager to help. “Character development, mytharc development, or the most popular self-contained stories?” When Castiel asked for clarification of mytharc, she said, “Oh, you know, the stories that follow the main arcs. The search for John, the special children, the breaking of the seals…”

Castiel looked at Dean, conflicted in his desire of everything. Dean could only shrug, so Castiel asked the salesperson plaintively, “How do I choose?”

She laughed. “Let me recommend some for you.” Castiel was given a small pile of hand-picked novels, on top of which she’d added a book that was in a completely different style from the rest. “This one’s Edlund’s Journal. It’s kinda like a wiki, with summaries of all the novels, characters, main plots, et cetera. It isn’t an official part of the franchise but it’s pretty useful and covers the whole series right until the last published book.”

“The last book?” Dean pulled the list of titles closer. The last one down the line had a title that didn’t seem an appropriate closure of an epic series. “What, did he pull a _Wheel of Time_ on you guys?”

That earned Dean a shocked stare. Castiel quickly put a hand on Dean’s arm and leaned forward to tell the salesperson apologetically, “I dragged him here against his will. He’s just humoring my hobbies.”

“Oh.” She relaxed but eyed Dean uneasily. “Uh, Carver Edlund’s been missing for a couple of months so it’s not something to joke about. He was a couple of books away from completing the final arc, but between wanting a book series to be finished and wanting someone to be _okay_ , it’s completely different, you know?”

“Geez, so sorry, I didn’t know,” Dean said sheepishly. He sighed and pulled out his wallet. “I guess that means I really do have to pay for all of this.”

“It’s for a good cause,” Castiel said firmly. He gleefully accepted the bag of books, nodding his gratitude at the salesperson. “Thank you, these will be most useful.”

They wandered away from the booth, Dean tucking his wallet back into his pants while he side-eyed the way Castiel was clutching his bounty. “You’re not thinking of reading every single one, are you?”

“No, but it’s good to have the primary references at our fingertips,” Castiel said. He took a deep, pleased breath of satisfaction, and then started scanning the hall for the next step forward. “We are in a place of experts. We should be able to find someone to ask. There!”

“Ask what?” Dean asked, but Castiel had started walking again, forcing him to keep up. “Hey, ask what?”

They passed by Jo, who was pretending to be a fangirl and chatting up a con-goer who was dressed up as her, and Gwen, who was gaping at a booth displaying blown-up artwork inspired by the books. They also passed by a woman in a red cocktail dress who was utterly out of place and watching them closely, but neither Dean nor Castiel registered her yet.

Castiel brought them to a branched-off room. A placard at the door announced that there was a discussion panel going on but Dean had only enough time to catch the title (“End Game: A Speculative Exercise”) before Castiel dragged him in, leading them to two free seats.

Unlike the main hall, there were few decorations in this room. A huge ‘Second Annual Supernatural Convention’ banner was hung above the raised stage where the panel was seated, but that was it.

“The story of Sam and Dean is epic,” one of the panelists was saying into a microphone. Her name was Becky Rosen, and she was exactly what Castiel was looking for. “It’s easy to dismiss its early atmosphere but we’re following the emotional arc of the Winchesters—”

Another panelist tapped her mic. “Not canon.”

Becky narrowed her eyes at her. “What?”

“The Winchester name is not canon,” the fellow Supernatural fan said. “Hey, you know I like that name as much you do, Becky, but unless it’s in the books, it’s not canon. Edlund’s notes don’t count.”

“Fine,” Becky huffed, displeased at having her momentum disrupted. Some of her listeners tittered, but Castiel was enraptured and Dean just plain confused. Becky continued, “Sam and Dean’s whole story is an allegory of free will. They are placed within specific situations – manipulated by specific moves and motives by almost everyone around them, but the beautiful thing – the _magical_ thing – about their story, is that they jump off the tracks every chance they get.”

“You don’t know that,” said Bruce, another panelist two seats down. “We don’t know how the whole story was supposed to play out. It could just as well be that all that track-jumping is actually them following the rails _exactly_ the way they’re supposed to.”

“How is that not _also_ guesswork, devilstrap404?” Becky countered.

“What’s more reasonable?” Bruce asked. “That it’s a story about hope or it’s a story about futility? Every single arc we’ve had has ended with tragedy. They find their father, he dies. They stop Azazel, Sam dies. Sam comes back, Dean goes to hell. Dean comes back, they start the Apocalypse.”

“Dude, they’re just books,” Dean muttered, which got him a jab from Castiel’s elbow. “Ow.” Dean glared at Castiel, who glared back before going back to reading Edlund’s Journal furiously.

Up on stage, Becky sighed. “Why does it have to be one or the other? It’s a story of hope _and_ futility. Sam and Dean’s lives are messed up. That’s the tragedy of it. Life keeps throwing thing after thing at them, but they’re better than that, they’re stronger than that. They take it and keep going. It’s why we read about them at all, _am I right_? _”_

The audience exploded in a chorus of cheers and whoops. Dean flinched, unsettled by their intensity, though if he had been there under different circumstances and if he weren’t Dean Winchester, he would have been amused and caught up in the infectious energy of the room. He’d once gotten into an argument at Comic-Con over the merits of Talia over Catwoman, but Talia and Catwoman weren’t real people that were part of Dean’s life.

Wanting a distraction, Dean randomly grabbed a book out of Castiel’s bag. It was a bumper edition, thicker than most of the others. He opened the pages randomly and found himself in a scene where:

Sam was dying. He was bleeding, a brand new knife-shaped hole inside the flesh of his torso, blood seeping through his clothes. Dean held him, yelled at him, told him that everything would be all right, but Sam could only drift, his last thoughts filled with regret and worry for his brother. He died quietly.

Dean slammed the book shut.

Nausea rolled over him in waves, the mental image of Sam broken and bloody unwelcome in his head. He dropped the troubling book and took out his phone, trying yet again to contact Sam. It failed and Dean bent over a little to stop himself from throwing up.

“Dean.” Castiel leaned close, worried. “Is this overwhelming you?”

“A little, yeah.” Dean took small, quick breaths while Castiel rubbed his lower back. “What is this, Cas? What does it mean?”

“I have an idea,” Castiel admitted, “But you won’t like it.”

“There’s lots of things about this I don’t like.”

Castiel rummaged through his bag of new books, found the one he needed and pulled it open to the first page. Slowly, and with some hesitation, Castiel placed it on Dean’s thigh so they could read together.

The prologue of the first entry in Carver Edlund’s _Supernatural_ series laid it out.

Mary Winchester in the nursery, Sam Winchester in his crib. Dean and Mary kissing Sam goodnight. John Winchester falling asleep in front of the television. Lights flickering, the baby monitor going weird, Mary checking the nursery and seeing a man that wasn’t John. Mary’s scream waking John up and John finding Mary pinned to the ceiling.

“Your mother’s deal came through.” Castiel pointed to the paragraph describing the shadowy figure in the nursery. “That was the demon, come to collect what he was owed.”

“But this didn’t happen,” Dean said, dragging his eyes away from the accurate description of their house which in real life was still intact and entirely unburned. “Mom’s alive.”

“And thus your life went down a different path.” Castiel, who was coming to tentative conclusions, pressed a palm to Dean’s cheek, wishing he could lessen the impact of what Dean was going to have to learn. “A prophet wrote these books, Dean.”

Before Dean could demand details, Castiel turned to the stage. “The auction’s starting,” he said.

“What auction?” Dean asked. When he looked up, he saw that Becky was being given a leather satchel by one of the stage hands, to the cheers of onlookers. “Geez, thanks. My eardrums needed piercing today.”

“It’s Carver Edlund’s final draft,” Castiel said, sitting up straight in an attempt to get a better look. His laser focus was all on Becky, who lifted a folder out of the leather satchel, showing it to the audience before putting it back in. “The last book he’d been working on before his disappearance.”

“And they’re auctioning it off?” Dean asked.

“For charity, yes, and only his agent knows its contents. We need to get our hands on it.” Castiel’s arm flew up. “Seventy-five!”

“Shit,” Dean groaned, sinking into his seat in embarrassment. The room around them erupted with enthusiastic bids, Castiel keeping up with the loudest of them until the small fry slowly peeled away.

“Three hundred,” said a feminine voice, distinct from the rest in its dulcet tones. It belonged to the woman in the red cocktail dress, and when Dean turned to check her out, the two of them locked eyes before Dean pulled away. By Dean’s reckoning, no one at the convention should be looking at him with recognition, but that woman had done exactly that.

“Three hundred twenty!” Castiel yelled.

“Cas, watch out for the hot chick in red,” Dean whispered. “There’s something about her.”

“I know,” Castiel said crossly. He glared her way when she countered with another bid. “We need that draft.”

“Excuse me,” said the man sitting directly behind them. He was dressed in businessman couture, and clamped a hand on each of their shoulders. “Dean and Castiel? I suggest you let her win this one.”

“Who the hell are you?” Dean growled, because Castiel was too busy calling out another counter-bid.

“Baldur.” Baldur squeezed their shoulders with a fraction of his god’s strength, making Dean grunt and Castiel gasp. “And that is Kali.”

“Pagan gods,” Castiel said with an acknowledging nod. If it had been earlier, such a statement would have gotten a sputter out of Dean, but now he merely snorted a derisive, _Gods, sure, why not._ Castiel enthusiastically offered another bid, ignoring Baldur’s suggestion. “Subjected to a human auction to get what you want. How interesting.”

“You have no idea how it works, do you?” Baldur asked, amused. “You have no money. Your offer means nothing.”

“You don’t know whether I have any money or not, thank you,” Castiel replied. He raised his arm again with a loud, “Four hundred!” while across the room Kali rolled her eyes.

“This isn’t about price, it’s about the right of ownership,” Baldur told him. “Prophet Chuck’s work is divinely protected. That last draft of his can only be claimed and read if purchased through legal contract, otherwise they’re just empty pages. Believe me, we’ve tried. A human contract is flawed but it’s binding where it counts, and since you can’t offer actual money, winning it like this will not make it yours.”

“So I should just let you take it?” Castiel asked.

Baldur raised an eyebrow at him. “You really don’t know anything, do you?” When Castiel’s expression didn’t change, Baldur chuckled in disbelief. “Where on earth is Anna? She said you might show up today but she neglected to mention that you’d be brain damaged.”

Castiel started in surprise. “You’re allies with Anna?”

“Seriously?” Baldur laughed, eyes flashing their inhuman icy blue. “I’m not here to be your babysitter. We’re _your_ fucking allies, we actually have the fucking money to buy the fucking book, so let us win the fucking book so we can _get the fuck out of here_.”

As sometimes happens in moments of dramatic tension, a new bidder emerged. Her voice rang out in the room, calm and poised as she declared her price: “Two thousand.”

Dean, who recognized the voice, seized up in a shock. He turned, dreading the visual confirmation of the speaker. Sitting in a chair five rows down, a hand delicately holding on to a pair of sunglasses, was Jess.

“Cas,” Dean hissed, “That’s Jess. Sam’s wife.”

Baldur made a sympathetic noise. “That’s a pity. She’s possessed by a demon. Demons are the badguys.”

“Possessed?” Dean croaked, just as Castiel said, “Sam, as in, your brother, Sam?”

“Two thousand five,” Kali snapped, a sharper edge in her bid.

“Well, it’s hardly our fault, is it?” Baldur told Dean. “Anna told us to protect Sam, so we took him away and tucked him up safe and snug. Why should we care about his wife?” He harrumphed under his breath and swept cool eyes over the room. “This isn’t going to end well.”

“Are there other demons?” Castiel asked, while Kali and Jess continued to out-bid each other.

“I see five – no, six.” Baldur patted Dean on the shoulder before getting up from his seat. “I suggest you run.”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look. Without saying a word, Dean took out his cell to send a grammatically-incorrect message to Mary that shit was about to go down, while Castiel hefted his bag of books into his arms, determined not to lose his hoard.

The demon in Jess stopped bidding first, baring her teeth in frustration at Kali, who raised an eyebrow in response.

There could be no end to the bidding, not when Kali and the demons had each individually amassed significant fortunes that turned the auction into a parody that neither could win. The Jess-demon sighed, flicked her eyes to all black, and then gave the signal for the other demons to make their move.

In retaliation, Kali stood up and burst into flames.

The screaming started.

Dean yelled, “We got to find the others!” above the din, grabbing Castiel’s arm. They got up from their seats and moved together, pressed close through the panicking bodies of innocent bystanders and heading roughly in the direction of where Dean had last seen Jo.

They even would have made it, too, if Dean hadn’t turned when he did and saw Kali shoot a ball of fire towards Jess. For though it was the demon inside her howling with rage, Dean could only see Jess – wonderful, kind, beloved Jess – so he changed direction, ran, and made an unthinking leap to push her out of harm’s way.

Trapped and helpless within her own body, Jess screamed a warning at Dean. The demon riding her merely grinned at him and said, “You need to buy me dinner first, slick.”

Dean backed away at the sight of Jess’ all-black demon eyes but the demon crawled towards him eagerly, distorting Jess’ smile into something much uglier. Dean remembered his knife but pulling it out would accomplish nothing because there was no chance that he’d ever use it on Jess.

The demon grabbed Dean’s ankle but was barreled over by Castiel, who was quick to lock her in a choke-hold. She snarled and struggled but Castiel held firm, hissing a quick, “Get away!” at Dean. His advantageous moment passed when the demon asserted her strength and twisted free, grabbing Castiel’s head and slamming him to the floor.

Kali stepped forward, luminous flames licking up her arms. “You wanted the book, Meg?” she said. “Well, you just fucked things over for all of us. Now it won’t belong to anyone.”

“I’ll survive, I’m sure,” the demon said cheerfully, squeezing a hand around Castiel’s neck. In any other situation, a demon would have rather fled than face off against a god, but these were unusual times and Meg was a demon with faith. “Our Great Father will kill you all. Lucifer is coming.”

“We know,” Kali said flatly. She opened up her hands to attack but at the last moment paused, scowling faintly at four new dark-suited figures that had just appeared. “Damn. Angels.”

So now there were: angels, demons and gods, with humans caught in between.

Dean didn’t care about the supernatural creatures playing bloody apocalyptic poker, each party having their own agenda barely relevant to his own. His only thoughts were for those who mattered: Jess, a demon puppet, and Castiel, a demon’s punching bag, along with Mary, Jo and Gwen whom he hoped had been able to make their exit.

Before Dean could make a decision, Kali’s red stilettos cut into his line of vision. “Time to go, Dean,” she said.

“No.” Dean’s focus narrowed to where Castiel had been discarded to the floor, Meg having fled after realizing that it was one thing to talk smack to gods but another to do so with angels. In Meg’s opinion, angels didn’t have a sense of humor to share between them.

“Dean,” a female voice said.

He turned, startled. “Anna?”

Anna smiled, pleased that he’d remembered her. “Dean, you have to go. Raphael’s coming and we’re not ready to face him. You need to go with Kali now. Take these.” She pushed Castiel’s dropped bag of books into his hands.

“But Cas, my mother…” Dean said.

“I’ll take care of them,” Anna promised. “Kali, get him out of here.”

Kali nodded, annoyed at the order but aware that this wasn’t the time to complain. “Took you a while to show up.”

“Yes, well.” Anna stood up to her full height. In one hand she brandished an angel-killing knife. Her other hand was glowing bright, as though there was a star caught between her fingers. “I had an errand to run.”

Then she stalked with full purpose towards where Castiel had been picked up by one of the dark-suited angels.

These angels were foot soldiers, innocent in their own way. Loyal to a fault, they were ready to fulfill their orders of making sure that the Prophet’s work was safe and that the runaway Castiel, who’d embarrassed Zachariah, was taken out of the equation. These angels remembered the time when Castiel had been one of them and the one now clenching a fist around Castiel’s windpipe spared a vague thought of regret that he had to put Castiel out of his misery.

That was the plan, anyway, and would have come to fruition if Anna hadn’t intervened, angel-killing knife flying.

Dean didn’t get to see what happened next because Kali grabbed his arm and they were gone.


	4. Act Four

The mansion was impressive in the way that old-fashioned museums were impressive, antiquated and beautiful and filled with the echoes that came from not being occupied by the living. It was a building for show, originally designed and built for the use of a flashy mob boss many decades ago. But flashy mob bosses rarely last long, and the mansion changed owners again and again before it finally fell into the ownership of Zao Jun.

Zao Jun, kitchen god and enthusiastic host, who perked up when Kali and Dean appeared.

“Welcome, welcome,” Zao Jun said cheerfully, rising to his feet and bowing in greeting. “Dean Winchester, ah yes, it is an honor.”

“Who’re you?” Dean asked. He looked around quickly, taking in the new environment before turning back to its owner. “Wait, do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Zao Jun admitted. “But I like you. You’re a family man, very respectful.”

“I have it,” said Baldur, who’d also appeared in a slight gust of wind. He raised the satchel with one hand and pulled Becky Rosen forward with the other. Becky squeaked at the sudden jerk, her face flushed red and almost in tears.

“You—” Dean gaped, “—you kidnapped her?”

“Of course,” Baldur said. “When the auction was killed, ownership reverted to the last person with legal right. Prophet Chuck gave the draft to his agent, who gave it to Becky to oversee the auction. Hence, she is its legal owner.”

“I don’t…” Becky looked around nervously, disturbed that the friendliest face in the room belonged to a pissed-off Dean. “Where are we?”

“You can’t just kidnap people!” Dean shouted.

Baldur spared maybe half a thought on Dean’s righteous indignation. “I feel so bad, however shall I cope.” He ignored Dean’s colorful curse and flipped open the satchel. “Now Becky, would you be so kind as to allow us to read this in your presence? Yes? That’s all we need, thank you.” Kali and Zao Jun drew in close on either side of him, watching eagerly as Baldur opened up Chuck Shurley’s final draft.

“Hey, I’m so sorry ‘bout this,” Dean said to Becky, who sniffled. “This is some big stuff that’s going down, not that I know half of what’s happening.”

“I just got teleported,” Becky said, trembling a little. “I think I’m in shock. I would really like to wake up now.”

Dean snorted. “You and me both.”

They both jumped at Baldur’s roar of, “This is useless!” and watched as the god threw the draft away.

At a gesture from Kali the sheets flew into her hands. She shook her head at Baldur in wry disappointment and carefully opened the pages again. “This prophet’s work uses a very… human voice,” she observed. “His message is not meant for us. It’s possible we can’t see what he’s trying to say.”

“Fine.” Baldur gestured at Becky, who tried to shrink away. “Ask her. Ask the expert what she sees.”

Kali’s smile was not a welcoming one, so Dean snatched the draft from her.

“Breathe,” Dean told Becky, sliding the draft into her hands. “It’s Becky, right? Just pretend that you won the auction and this is yours now.”

Becky closed her hands around the pages. She took a deep breath and tried to ignore that she was being expected to perform. She focused instead on the honor it was to be allowed to read the last work, though incomplete, that Chuck Shurley had given the world. She smoothed her hand over the cover and flipped it open.

A few lines in and Becky went still, her fear mostly forgotten as the story pulled her in. “It’s set after _Swap Meat_ , but there’s no clear indication of the exact timeline. Dean’s in the middle of a dream – oh, _typical_ – and then Anna shows up. She has a plan to – for crying out loud – to kill Sam, really?” Becky whirled on Dean, mouth pursed angrily. “It’s not his fault, you know. All his decisions turned _down_ destiny. He didn’t want to hunt, he didn’t play along with YED’s games, but apparently conscious decisions account for nothing. And now you want to blame him for the fact that he’s Lucifer’s vessel? Seriously?”

“Sam’s Lucifer’s vessel?” Dean said. “Oh. Oh, God.”

“Well, obviously,” Becky said. “We’ve known that since _Free to be You and Me_ , right? Not that I actually believe that that’s the whole story, because hello, Lucifer! Same thing with Zachariah. I swear, angels lie as much as demons, they’re just not as clever about it.”

“And I’m Michael’s vessel,” Dean said, turning to Kali and Zao Jun. “Me and Sam, we’ve got to – that’s what the final battle is about?”

“In a nutshell, yes, though we’d really like to avoid that altogether,” Kali said dryly. “That’s why we’ve gathered as many gods here for council.”

“It’s real?” Becky’s mouth fell open. “The books are _real_?” Then, quieter, “I knew it.”

“So this—” Dean reached into Castiel’s bag, grabbing a random _Supernatural_ novel and waving it at them, “—is a life me and Sam could have had?”

“No,” Kali said sharply, holding back her impulse to make Dean swallow his own tongue. “This is the life you _did_ have, and could you please be quiet. Becky, continue, and be succinct. Without your personal comments, if at all possible.”

Becky was already pages deep into the draft, swallowing up information. “Okay. So Castiel’s met Anna, who wants to destroy Sam and scatter his cells across the universe so he’ll never become Lucifer’s vessel – I think I read a fic like that once – but Castiel says… oh.” Her eyebrows went up in surprise. “Castiel says there has to be another way—”

“We knew this already,” Baldur said.

“—so Anna suggests going back in time and going after their parents instead,” Becky continued. “So that Sam and Dean will never be born.”

Dean decided there was a time and place for everything; this was neither the time nor place to digest Castiel’s role in this. He focused on, “Anna went _Terminator_ on us?”

“No, actually, she doesn’t.” Becky turned the page over, found the next one empty, and turned back. “Castiel changes her mind with an idea that they kill Azazel instead, so he never marks Sam at six months old and…”

“And my mother never dies,” Dean finished for her. “And our lives turned out completely different.”

“We already knew this,” Baldur said, practically vibrating with frustration. “What does that thing say about stopping the end of the world? How do we _fix_ it?”

“It ends there,” Becky said helplessly, showing them where the writing had cut off at the scene of Castiel and Anna going back in time together. “There’s nothing else. But… wait a minute. If Sam was never fed demon blood, how can he be Lucifer’s vessel now? How were the seals broken? Why has the Apocalypse started anyway?”

“Metaphysical questions,” Zao Jun said, nodding sagely. “Reality bleed. That’s what you get when the world isn’t designed by committee.”

Kali gestured at the book still in Dean’s hand, the one that told tales of lives that had once been. “ _That_ was reality until Castiel killed Azazel before he could mark your brother. That changed things, but the change itself is… flawed. Reality as we know it has been fractured and, as you can imagine, we find that rather inconvenient.” She turned to Baldur. “The others are waiting, we must go.”

“And tell them what?” Baldur asked. “The book offers nothing. Anna’s alliance is useless!”

“I wouldn’t say _entirely_ useless,” Zao Jun said. “Now we know that the demons are mobilizing as well. Lucifer may still be trapped but he must be breaking through if he’s been able to contact them.”

“Read that again, carefully,” Kali told Becky, the order soft as steel. “There has to be a message in there, something you missed. We’ll come back later and rest assured, there will be a test.”

“Oh!” Zao Jun turned to Dean and Becky, beaming at them widely. “There’s some food down that way, toilets are on the first floor, feel free to explore anywhere that isn’t locked, and if any of the statues talk to you, just ignore them, they’re compulsive liars.”

Then the three gods walked away together, stepping beyond massive wooden doors that slammed shut behind them.

“What?” Becky said.

Dean stared, gaped, and then ran forward to slam his palm against the door. “Hey, you’re just going to leave us here? Hey!” There was no doorknob to rattle, so he banged his fist against the wooden surface, demanding that the gods come back and explain, and what about Castiel and Mary and everyone else they’d left behind?

He only stopped when he heard a familiar, “Dean?”

Standing at the bottom of a staircase, fear and awareness and hope all over his face, was Sam Winchester.

Dean stared, frozen. “Sam?”

After a long moment where they stared at each other in disbelief, Dean approached his brother in dazed, jerky steps. “Sam,” he groaned, before wrapping him in a massive hug. Sam clung back, exhaling with relief at the confirmation that Dean was real. Dean pulled back to ask, “You okay? They didn’t hurt you?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Sam said. “A little pissed off, but good.” He chuckled, confused and relieved. The sound was matched by Dean, who joined with a chortle of his own. Before long they were laughing together, their voices rising in pitch until they hit the edge of hysteria and came back down.

“Jesus,” Sam said, shoulders shaking and hiccupping behind his hand.

“Fuck me sideways,” Dean said. He punched Sam’s shoulder, grinning when that got him a scowl and a soft _quit it._ “How is this our life?”

“I don’t know, man,” Sam said. His hair was a little longer since the last time they’d met, and there was stubble all over his chin. “I’ve been keeping out of the way since I got here, but I’ve been seeing gods and demigods pass through this place like… I saw Hera, you know, _Hera_ , wife of Zeus? And Isis and Ganesh and Oberon and it’s just… I keep expecting to wake up, like this is all just a really trippy bad-pizza dream.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean said. “If you’d seen half the crap I have – oh, fuck. Jess…” He told him about Jess, watching the way Sam’s face went dark.

“We have to…” Sam paused, swallowing his anger and fear. “We have to know what we’re dealing with. I caught some of what you were saying just now. So it’s the end of the world? There’s time travel involved? Mom’s involved?”

“Yeah, there’s that and then some,” Dean said, gesturing for Sam to follow him back to the pile of spilled books. “Check it out.”

Becky was where Dean had left her, standing stock still with her eyes glistening. “You’re Sam and Dean. Sam and Dean Winchester.” She took an eager step towards Sam but froze uncertainly. “But… you’re not Sam. Not _my_ Sam.”

“Uh…” Sam glanced at Dean.

“No, he’s not,” Dean said. He picked through books, finding the first one in the series and tossing it to Sam. “Carver Edlund’s _Supernatural_ , hipster best sellers or whatever they are. Though Baldur called him, uh, what is it, Prophet Chuck?”

“Oh, Chuck’s his real name,” Becky said. “Chucky Shurley. I know that because we’re friends but he’s been missing since he finished that last draft.” Becky gnawed her thumbnail anxiously, though she would’ve been able to scratch one worry off her list if she knew that Chuck wasn’t missing, and had merely gone home once his job was done.

“So we’re here because of something we did in an alternate universe?” Sam looked down at the novel in his hand. The cover featured an entirely inaccurate drawing of Sam and Dean, which would have been inaccurate in this universe and in any other. Such was the transformative nature of holy texts through multiple interpreters. “We were... the Scooby Gang with Fabio hair?”

“Something like that,” Becky said.

Dean pushed through the books, knowing exactly which one they needed. He found Edlund’s Journal quickly, and brandished it with relish. “Cliff’s Notes. And don’t forget we have a bona fide freakin’ expert right here.”

“Well.” Sam looked at the journal, his brother, and the fangirl who was still watching him with a wary but dewy-eyed expression. The mild hysteria hadn’t quite faded away, but he was ready to dive in and do something useful. “We can start with that.”

  


* * *

  
Sam and Dean unfolded the story with remarkable accuracy. They were Sam and Dean Winchester: lawyer and small-town businessman, but in another lifetime they had been Sam and Dean Winchester: hunters of the supernatural, orphaned nomads, and all around bad-asses with a fucked up history.

To Sam, the novels were little more than research materials to be used as guides for their next move.

To Dean, the novels were downright voyeuristic. The Sams and Deans and Johns in the novels were real people who were only one degree away, too close for comfort and yet so wildly different that he couldn’t help thinking about the overlaps they had in common and the gaps that kept them apart. Dean the regular Joe read about Dean the hunter and could relate to him, except where he couldn’t.

During this journey of discovery, Dean and Sam went through: Edlund’s Journal, some passages from various key novels, Zao Jun’s food (Sam had already been eating it anyway, and despite Dean’s concern, it was harmless), and Becky’s own offered commentary on the canon that had been their previous lives.

“Your whole lives are twisted with secrets, all the way back to the beginning,” Becky said. “It’s like, you guys keep lying to each other or lying by omission, but it’s only because you love each other so much. See, ‘cause on the surface lying is part of your job as hunters, but when you look a little deeper, it’s a learned thing you do because you believe that’s what’s needed to survive. John did the same, he had a lot of the facts already but only told you what he thought was important because it’s ‘for your own good’.” Becky said it complete with the finger quotes. “And the lies go all the way up to Mary, who hid the first ginormous secret of them all where she made a pretty important deal that’d define your whole lives.”

“So what you’re saying,” Sam said carefully, “Is that everything that happens in these books traces back to this Mary? That she started allof it by making that deal with Azazel?”

“Oh, no!” Becky said quickly. “No, no, I was talking about your character development. The big stuff, the arc stuff, all of thatstarted _before_. Like, I’m not an expert in the Apocalypse arc, but my understanding is that it’s generally accepted that the higher powers – angels, I guess – manipulated the major pieces so that your parents would get married and have you, and _then_ Mary would make the deal with Azazel.”

“What?” Dean said. “So it’s the angels’ fault?”

“For the big things, sure, but look here…” Becky rummaged around, finding a copy of _In the Beginning_. “It’s circular causality. Cas took Dean back in time to see his parents, and while in the past Dean hunted down Azazel and accidentally brought him into Mary’s life. That’s how Mary ended up making the deal with Azazel.”

“So it’s my fault,” Dean said.

“No!” Becky groaned, frustrated. “It’s not about whose fault it was _._ The angels ordered Cas to do that because that’s how it always happened, that’s how it always started.”

The small drawing of Castiel on the cover looked nothing like the real deal, but Dean felt a pang anyway. Not only was Castiel deeply involved, he was in fact one of the active pieces, responsible for far more than Dean could have guessed.

“Don’t call him Cas,” Dean said. “You don’t know him.”

“Oh, is that a big deal? Fine, whatever.” Becky pulled out one of the page foldouts in Edlund’s Journal, revealing a fan-designed timeline of major events complete with loops to indicate time travel. “So Castiel did the time jumping but he told you – in the books – that destiny can’t be changed. So that’s probably why reality’s all fractured and weird. I mean, in this timeline we’re in right now, Azazel still made the deal with Mary, right?”

Dean stole a quick look at Sam, who only nodded absently and turned a page. “Yeah.”

“So…” Becky said slowly, “For that to have happened at all, _a_ Dean must have gone back in time in order for Azazel to find Mary in the first place. But that can’t be right because _that_ Dean no longer exists. So what we have, gentlemen, is a time paradox.”

Dean perked up. “Hey, I know that one. They cross the streams and the galaxy explodes.” He jumped when Becky smacked him on the wrist. “Hey.”

“Reality got _broken_ ,” Becky said sternly. “Which is probably why the Apocalypse is still happening but not in the right way. That god said that Lucifer’s still trapped, right? He’d have to be, if you guys aren’t hunters and the first seal never got broken. But with this time paradox messing everything up, it’s probably like what that scary lady said – Castiel changed things but the original timeline is still hanging on like a limpet or something.” It was a good analogy, and remarkably accurate. “Better than the galaxy exploding, I guess.”

“So.” Sam put the novel down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Now there’s all these gods, who normally don’t get along, working together towards a common goal of preventing total annihilation.”

“Seems like it, yeah,” Dean said. “And I have the feeling that this alliance is Anna’s idea. Or maybe even Cas’, before he fell and… all that.”

The glint in Sam’s eye was knowing but he didn’t press Dean further on that front. “These gods think we’re important and we now know _why_ they think we’re important. That gives us some bargaining power.”

“Against gods?” Dean asked incredulously. “That’s just…”

The guitar riffs of Dean’s ringtone were shrill in the otherwise quiet room.

“Dude,” Sam said. “Didn’t you say there was no reception?”

“There wasn’t!” Dean fumbled for his phone. “Hello?”

“ _Dean,_ ” said Jess. “ _You’re a tough man to reach._ ”

“Jess?” Dean said, and as soon as he did, Sam flailed, desperate hands trying to reach for the phone. Dean pushed him away, tapped a finger to his mouth and put the phone on loudspeaker. “Or is this Meg?”

“ _Cute,_ ” said Meg, with such cheerful malice that Sam’s face crumpled. “ _You have something we want. So how about a trade! Exciting, yes? The Supernatural book for Jessica, win-win for everyone._ ”

“Why do you want it?” Dean asked.

“ _Why do you care?_ ”

“Uh, I…” Dean thought quickly. “I don’t know where I am. Kali zapped—”

“ _Hmm, yes, not my problem_ ,” Meg said. “ _You get to a crossroads and call me back at this number, or I’ll slice a knife through Jess’ pretty little stomach and paint my nails with what I find._ ”

“There is—” he started, but Meg had already hung up.

Sam’s face had gone white. He swayed a little, hyperventilating softly, and after a few false starts finally managed to say, “We’ve got to get out of here. Right now. All they want is the book, we can do it.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dean said.

Becky clutched the Prophet’s draft. She murmured, “Demons lie” but neither Winchester heard her.

“Dean, it’s _Jess_ ,” Sam said brokenly. “Becky’s already read that thing, she can probably recite it by heart by now. And it won’t tell the demons anything, right? If it’s useless to the gods, it’ll be useless to them, too, right?”

Dean could see Sam’s justification for what it was but his resolve wavered anyway. “What do you want to do? Walk out of here? Yeah, I’m sure they’ll let us.”

“Actually…” Sam ducked his head, his smile turning sly. In a rare gift of the moment, there wasn’t anyone untoward listening in and he whispered, “I’ve been exploring the place, I do think there’s a way out. I couldn’t use it before because I was alone, but with you here…”

“Bad idea!” Becky protested. “Gods! Don’t want to get gods angry!”

“But they won’t hurt us,” Sam said reasonably. “They need us and they’re keeping us here to protect us. The worst they’ll do is just bring us back here.”

Becky gazed up at him helplessly. “Gods!”

“Fine,” Dean said, grabbing his jacket. “I hate sitting here doing shit all. They’re telling us squat so the way I figure, we don’t owe them a goddamn thing. Let’s go.”

“You can’t trust Meg,” Becky said, scrambling up to her feet as the two men started gathering their things. “You don’t know anything about demons—”

“My wife is out there,” Sam said angrily. It was easy for someone like Sam to loom and Becky shrunk back, eyes wide. “If there’s a chance I can save her life, I’m taking it, so give me the book. Please.”

Becky mutely handed Chuck Shurley’s incomplete work over. The real Sam – even an alternate reality’s Sam – was far scarier than the Sam that had been in Becky’s head. She eventually mustered up enough courage to say, “I’m staying here.” When Dean tried to advise her against it, she added, “This is important. I’m staying here. I’m going to wait for Anna.”

“You should come with us—” Sam said.

“You don’t even know how to fight demons!” Becky yelled, practically stamping her foot. “Both of you! And Meg’s one of the mean ones! She may not have messed around with you in this timeline but I’ve actually read the books, I know what she’s capable of! And she’s on Lucifer’s side so it’s probably – no, it’s _definitely_ a trick.”

“We can get some salt from the kitchen,” Sam said. He tucked Edlund’s Journal into the back of his pants. “And I’m pretty sure we can get some iron.”

“If we can get outside and there’s reception, I can call Anna,” Dean said, adjusting the knife that was still in his jacket. “She’ll help.”

“But…” Becky turned from one to the other helplessly. She knew from their identical stubborn expressions that nothing she could say would change their minds. “Don’t die, please. I like you, even if you are pale imitations of the originals.”

“Thanks.” Sam squeezed her shoulder and tactfully ignored her squeak of surprise. “Take care of yourself.”

And so it was that Sam and Dean, lawyer and small-town businessman, set out on a well-meaning endeavor to rescue Jessica Moore-Winchester. They stocked themselves up with what makeshift weapons they could find around the mansion, though there weren’t many to take because Zao Jun’s statues didn’t like giving up any of their possessions.

Escape from Zao Jun’s mansion was easy, and Dean said as much when they snuck their way through the otherwise abandoned building to the basement. The basement had a single window near the ceiling, too high for Sam to reach by himself, and boxes that remained fallen at the wayside were evidence of the last time he’d tried to escape this way.

“Well, they are in the middle of a General Assembly,” Sam said, grunting as he gave Dean a boost up. “I think with that many mutual frenemies in one place, everyone’s got to be keeping an eye on everyone else.”

“Let’s just cross our fingers they haven’t wired up the place.” Dean jimmied the joints with his knife and when it was loose enough, elbowed the window open. He paused, waiting for the scream of an alarm or bolt of lightning but all that happened was that the window popped open and his face was hit with a blast of fresh air. “Huh.”

Even gods could be careless, especially when dealing with mortals they considered helpless.

Dean and Sam crawled out into the garden which was a harmless human garden and had no enchanted trees or cursed flowers in it whatsoever. After a moment where they looked at each other in disbelief that they’d made it, they broke into a run, slipping into the overgrowth with as much stealth as they could manage.

“I’ve been dreaming about Lucifer,” Sam said, once they were a safe distance away. There was no guilt or fear in the admission. “I couldn’t have known it was real, especially because it’s so… pedestrian. He just sits there and talks. Tells me I’m special and that I have a destiny.”

“Hey, that sounds familiar,” Dean said wryly. “I got a Michael on my ass, so hey! Archangels chasing us down, that’s something you and me have in common. Though I can’t say I’ve been wet-dreaming about mine.”

“Ack,” Sam gagged. “Thank goodness for that since Michael’s wearing _Dad_ and all.”

Dean tripped on air. “You had to go there?”

“You did it first.”

“Oh, you little—” Dean paused, thinking back to the books, “—bitch.”

“Aha!” Sam said gleefully. “Gonna tell Mom you said that. She’ll kick your ass.”

“Man.” Dean sighed. “We are so less cool.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Despite the circumstances, Dean grinned. This wasn’t how he’d expected to see Sam again but he couldn’t help feeling elated and buoyed by the comfort of his presence, the two of them sharing this unexpected curve ball together. It felt a little less of an out-of-control rollercoaster when Dean could see Sam making faces and being pissed off about it right along with him.

“We need a plan,” Sam said. “Even if it’s something stupid like call the demon and jump her.”

“Hey,” Dean said. “That’s more a plan than what I was thinking.”

Neither Dean nor Sam were sure whether Meg had a specific type of crossroad in mind, though a quick glance at Edlund’s Journal told them that any crossing of roads worked when it came to demonic forces. After walking some ways through the woods, they found a sand and earth path, which eventually lead them to a sand and earth crossroad.

“Still no reception?” Sam asked.

“None,” Dean said, putting his cellphone away. “Though I’m guessing T-Demon has special coverage when we call her.”

He crouched down, watching as Sam emptied his pockets and started drawing a circle of salt on the ground. As it had been with Mary, there was comfort and dissonance in seeing Sam drawn into this mess. His whole family was in this now and that made it far more real than it had been before.

“You’re taking all of this pretty well,” Dean observed. “I mean, considering.”

Sam shifted round to finish the circle. “We gotta do what we gotta do.”

Dean huffed softly at the thought that that sounded like something Sam or Dean would say in the books. “It’s kinda cool, though, once you get past all the mess. I mean, the part where we’re heroes. Modern day cowboys, riding the Wild West and dealing with things as we go.”

Sam put the salt can down. Dean braced himself, expecting a joke at his expense, but Sam’s expression was soft, kind, and a little sad. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sam said. “You really would.”

Dean flushed. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course not, Dean, but that’s not us.” Sam rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his slacks. “I mean, it is us _sometimes_. I’d do anything for you or Mom or Dad, no question about it. And I know you’d do the same for me. But it’s just… I’d like to think that I’m not the kind of person who’d let Lucifer free and cause the end of the world.”

That sobered Dean right up. “Dude, circumstance.”

“Exactly,” Sam said fiercely. “Circumstance that no longer applies to us. All I want right now is to get Jess back, because _that_ life? Isn’t mine.”

“Yeah,” Dean said guiltily. Sam had gone straight for the part of the books Dean didn’t like to think about too closely, of how that Sam and Dean had their paths guided by what they lost instead of what they had. “We’ll get her back.”

“I’m ready. You ready?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean said. His knees creaked a little softly when he stood up. “You stay hidden, right?”

The phone call went through immediately, the parody of Jess thrilled that Dean was able to get back to her so quickly. Meg said, “ _I’m sure Jessica would be so happy for you. Just hang tight, stud, I’ll be there in_ —”

The air shifted, and Dean put his cell down.

“—two shakes of a tail.” Meg smiled at him with Jess’ face, though that was less chilling than her blood-soaked hands that spilled red drops to the ground. She followed his gaze and demurely wiped her hands on Jess’ skirt. “Spells can get a little messy, sorry about that.”

“That—” Dean swallowed, trying not to let his fear show, “—that had better not be her blood.”

“Oh, no, of course not!” Meg twirled coyly for his benefit. “I’ve been taking good care of her. But let’s get down to business. I believe we’re here for a trade?”

“Let Jess go first.”

“Where’s the book?” She tilted Jess’ head curiously and approached in small, teasing steps. She paused when she saw that Dean was standing in a circle of salt. “Scared of li’l ‘ol me, Dean?”

Dean held the draft out, mindful to keep it and his hands within the protective circle. “Good enough? Let Jess go.”

“Oh, please,” Meg said. “How do I even know that’s the real thing if you won’t let me read it first?”

“How do I know you’re not gonna vanish the moment I give it to you?”

Meg sighed. “You really are the boring Winchester, aren’t you?” She took out a knife, its sharp blade glinting in the sunlight, and tapped it against Jess’ stomach. “Let’s just make this easy for everyone.”

Keeping his eyes on Meg, Dean said, “Fetch” and threw the book out to the side.

It wouldn’t have worked if Meg had kept her head clear. But Meg’s head wasn’t clear, for she was a child of Hell who’d been aimless for years since the death of her father Azazel but now burned with a new mission from Lucifer himself, the Great Father of them all.

Get the book, Lucifer had told her. Get Sam Winchester.

She’d failed to snatch Sam Winchester, but she could do this. Meg leapt after the draft, dropping to the ground to catch it when it fell. She let out a sound of bliss, gleeful in her success where lesser demons had failed. But her joy was short-lived, for iron landed across her body and pinned her to the ground.

Meg hissed, pain at every point where iron met Jess’ skin. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with!”

“Wild guess.” Dean leaned over her, pressing a shoe on an edge of the chain mail to keep her down. “End of the world?”

“Hey, it worked,” Sam said, running up next to Dean’s side. He was holding the canister of salt but lowered it the moment he saw the expression on his wife’s face. “Oh, God, Jess, what did they do to you?”

Meg went still at the sight of Sam, her eyes going soft and shocked. “Sam Winchester,” she said gently, reverentially. “The hand of our Lord.”

“Jess, can you hear me?” Sam said. “Jess, you hang tight, we’re going to find a way to—”

Meg screamed. Sam and Dean covered their ears, the demonic call to arms shrill and painful.

“Oh shit,” Dean said. He lowered his hands, one sliding to the knife in his jacket as new figures materialized around them. These lesser demons were Meg’s back-up and they approached Sam and Dean with delight on their stolen faces.

“It’s time, Sam,” Meg said sweetly. “Our Lord is waiting for you.”

Sam raised his crowbar anxiously. “Can we take ‘em?”

“I don’t know.” Dean brandished his knife. “We’re going to find out.”

Sam and Dean were not hunters. They were clumsy and unused to this kind of violence, but they had in their favor their drive and determination. Iron and salt and holy water were used as weapons, as were fists and feet and earth. Sam swung his crowbar wildly, wincing at every hit he got in, while Dean managed to slice a demon’s leg and take him down by knotting Gwen’s silver chain around his neck.

Then Meg broke free. She pushed Zao Jun’s chain mail off, scrambled for Dean’s gun where it’d fallen during his scuffle, and pointed it at her own head.

“Jess!” Sam screamed, but when Meg pulled the trigger, there was only a click.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Dean said. He was sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily and grinning. “Didn’t have any salt shells on me so I figured, didn’t need those extras.”

“You will know pain,” Meg hissed, throwing the gun aside. “Sam will be brought to—” She froze, eyes sliding to full black.

Fingers wrapped around Jess’ neck, and her mouth fell open wordlessly.

The fingers belonged to Zachariah, who squeezed Jess’ throat firmly. His attention was not on her, but on Sam and Dean, pure scorn in his glare. “This again? You boys have only known about demons for what, _one_ day, and you’re already making deals with them? Unbelievable.”

“Zachariah,” Dean said.

Zachariah shuddered, shaking off things Sam and Dean couldn’t see. “Ugh, pagan magic, this whole place stinks with it. Do you know how hard it’s been to find you? No, of course not, you don’t know anything beyond what’s in your little selfish cocoons.”

“Oh, I thought it was _me_ ,” Dean said. “You don’t call, don’t write…”

“You’re approached by angels,” Zachariah spat, “And not just any angels, but _the_ Archangel Michael. You’re told that your puny, insignificant little life may have actual meaning and you turn your back on it, for what? For this?” He flicked his hand out and the other demons exploded in bloody spatter.

Sam gasped, flecks of red on his face and clothes. “Did he just…?”

Dean gingerly lifted his hands away from the liquid remains of the body closest to him. “Chunky demon soup.”

“Look at this one,” Zachariah said, shaking Jess’ head a little. Meg hissed old curses at him that made Zachariah titter. “Pretty thing.”

Sam raised his crowbar up. “Don’t you hurt her,” he growled.

“The host?” Zachariah pursed his lips thoughtfully and Meg screamed at the first touch of angel Grace through his fingers. “The host can be saved, but that’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“I’ll kill you,” Sam said.

“Then tell your brother that he has to do what he has to do,” Zachariah said calmly. Steam was rising from where his fingers curved tight around Jess’ neck. “Aren’t you the ones who care about that sort of thing?” He abruptly let Jess go and the demon fell to the ground, unimportant.

“Was that supposed to hurt?” Meg slurred, teeth stained red when she grinned up at Zachariah. “Found it kinda ticklish, myself.”

Zachariah rolled his eyes, muttered “Demons” and started chanting in an old tongue.

“Hey, hey now,” Dean said, when the wind picked up around them. The swirl of leaves and sand was like the herald of a storm. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Michael will deal with you,” Zachariah said. He closed his eyes, contented. “You’re not my problem anymore, you little—”

It happened quickly. One moment Zachariah was promising Dean and Sam their just desserts, and the next there was an angel knife slicing through his neck, the long blade of the weapon jutting out obscenely from under his chin. He gurgled helplessly, and then his eyes began to glow in their death throes.

Castiel carefully stepped out from behind Zachariah and pulled the angel knife free. “Dean, Sam,” he said, “I suggest you shut your eyes now.”

They obeyed – Sam only doing so after seeing Dean do it without argument – and the release of Zachariah’s true essence in death flashed bright outside their closed eyelids. When they opened their eyes, Castiel was half-crouched over Jess, a hand over her head, exorcizing the demon within.

“Sam,” Jess gasped.

“Jess? Jess!” Sam was at her side in an instant, cradling her in his arms. Castiel quickly backed away, nodding with satisfaction that her few demon-related wounds had healed nicely.

Jess, for it was truly Jess, gazed up at Sam. “Hey, stranger,” she said quietly, and Sam blinked back tears as he wiped the blood from her lips.

The wind still whirled around them, licking at Dean’s jacket and occasionally throwing him off-balance. Castiel, on the other hand, was standing perfectly still, regarding Dean with his familiar, solemn gaze. Dean looked right back, and then down at the sight of Sam holding Jess, and of Zachariah’s body on the ground, flanked by the burned imprint of wings.

Castel was in the same clothes and had the same hair, the same eyes, the same curious cant to his head, but he wasn’t the same. Dean would have known it even if Castiel hadn’t just popped out of thin air to drive a knife through Zachariah’s throat. It was that knowledge that had Dean glued to the spot instead of reaching for him.

“You’re an angel again,” Dean said weakly.

“Yes, Anna was able to steal my Grace back from where Zachariah had hidden it. She brought it to the convention quite in the… nick of time.” Castiel’s smile fell when Dean stared back blankly; this time it was Dean’s turn not to see the joke. “We were able to make our escape from the angels at the hotel but not without a struggle. I’m sorry for the delay.”

“Sure,” Dean said.

Castiel looked down at Sam and Jess. “Hello, Sam, Jess. It’s a pleasure to see you. I’m sorry to cut this short but Michael’s coming and you should be at the safe house.” He touched their foreheads and they were gone. “Dean, come. Your mother and the others are already there.”

“Wait.” Dean took a quick step back, eyeing Castiel’s angel-killing knife warily. “What are you going to do? You going to fight Michael? That’s my dad he’s in, you can’t.”

“I can’t fight Michael. He’s far more powerful than I am,” Castiel said.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Dean, stop it,” Castiel said calmly. “You have to go. If Michael gets hold of you now, he’ll try to force you to say yes.”

“Fuck that.” Dean waved his knife, more on principle than as an actual threat. “I’m not going unless you’re coming with me.”

“You can’t—”

The wind stopped. Michael was there.

The Archangel Michael, who was still wearing John, scowled at Zachariah’s emptied vessel. “You killed him. Your own brother.”

“Yes,” said Castiel, who saw no point in justifying himself.

Michael laughed, and the subtle after-echo of his true voice rustling the trees. “You slayed one of your own and yet you still stand there, bold and reckless.”

“Hey,” Dean said, ignoring Castiel’s quick glare of warning. “Zach was a grade-A dick. He hurt Cas and Jess. I don’t care if you are an Angel of the Lord, that is not cool.”

“This is a time of war, Dean,” Michael said kindly, John’s face twisted into a sad, solemn expression. “Castiel’s betrayal runs deeper than you understand. Where will it end? A civil war? A second Rebellion?”

“Free will is, in itself, a rebellion,” Castiel said, eyes flicking briefly to Dean. “The Righteous Man taught me that.”

“Then you’re a fool.” In a blink of Dean’s eye, the two angels moved. Michael now stood right before Castiel, a hand wrapped around his throat, while Castiel pressed his angel blade against the site of John’s heart. Michael sighed. “Destiny is what defines us all.”

“No,” Castiel said. “I’m living proof it’s not always that simple. Raphael struck me down, I was revived. Anna and I went back in time to change history – something we’ve always believed and always _has been_ impossible – and it worked. And it could have only worked if _God_ let it be.”

Michael’s smile faded. “Don’t blaspheme.”

“How would you explain it, then?” Castiel asked calmly. “Look at where we are. We’re standing in the impossible. How can this be anything less than a miracle of God?”

Michael shook his head in denial. “This isn’t our Father’s doing—”

“You deny that?” Castiel asked in disbelief. “Haven’t you been waiting for a message from Him? Well, here it is. I have faith in our Father and I will put my trust in Him.” His hand fell open and the angel knife fell to the ground with a loud thump.

“Cas,” Dean said, freezing in place when Michael glared at him. “This is what you wanted to do?”

“I’m tired of running, Dean,” Castiel said. “For the first time in a long time, I’m unafraid.”

“This isn’t…” Michael turned his attention back to Castiel, whom he shook viciously in his irritation. Castiel didn’t blink when Michael spat, “You’re just a foot soldier, you don’t know anything. You were barely there for the first battles. You’ve never seen God’s face, heard God’s voice.”

“Look.” Dean stepped forward, throwing caution to the wind. “You guys haven’t heard from God in a while, right? Then how can you be sure that what’s happening isn’t exactly the way He wants it?”

“Because _I_ am to take down Lucifer,” Michael said.

“Only if Lucifer is free,” Dean pointed out. “Which he isn’t. Not right now. Am I right?”

Michael paused, consternation and alarm slowly blooming over John’s face.

“Lucifer is still trapped,” Dean added, parroting what Zao Jun had said. “That makes everything you’re doing right now completely moot.”

Realization made Michael scowl. “He will need to be freed.” He dragged Castiel’s face close and hissed, “ _You_ will need to free him. This is your doing, and you will fix it.”

Castiel slanted a look sideways at Dean. “Not exactly what I was thinking, but…”

“It _will_ come, one way or another,” Michael bellowed, throwing Castiel to the ground. He stood up to John’s full height, bold and self-assured in John’s body. It wasn’t the right skin, but there were a lot of things in this reality that weren’t right for Michael. “Not now, and maybe not tomorrow, but I can wait. Lucifer will be free eventually, and I’m very good at waiting.”

“You can give my father back,” Dean said boldly. “Uh. You know, as an act of good faith. You don’t need him anymore, right?”

“Curious,” Michael said, regarding Dean with wry amusement. “You do know that means I’ll be coming for you next?”

Dean shrugged. “I know you’ll try.” He hadn’t really expected that to work, and so was surprised when Michael started to glow.

“One day,” Michael told him. He wasn’t conceding defeat, or even conceding Dean’s point. Like most angels, he was defined by his purpose, and the final battle with Lucifer was the only thing he felt would make everything worthwhile. The world around them had shifted too much and, at this point at least, Castiel and the Winchesters could have at it.

Michael slipped out of John’s skin in a storm of wind and thunder.

When the light cleared, all that was left was John, kneeling in the dirt and shaking. Dean was at his side immediately, checking that he was okay while John gasped, “What the hell?”

“Just another day of tripping the angel fantastic,” Dean said, patting John’s back as he struggled to get his breath back. “You good, Dad? Dizzy, nauseous? What’s the usual aftereffects, Cas?”

“For being an Archangel vessel?” Castiel scrutinized John carefully. “Brain damage, usually. The fact that your father is talking in coherent sentences is excellent. Michael knows mercy, after all.”

“There were angels,” John said, shivering in his leather jacket. “Goddamn angels in my TV, saying you and Mary and Sam were in danger, and…”

“And you said yes.” Dean slung John’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to his feet. “For us.”

“No question,” John said, as though anything else was too stupid for consideration. He squinted through his headache, struggling to focus on Castiel. “I know you. Weird guy. Fridge.”

“Nice to meet you again, John,” Castiel said. He stepped forward, raising his hands to their foreheads. “Come, you must be tired.”

  


* * *

  
There were tearful hugs and heartfelt curses when they returned to Zao Jun’s house.

There was also a loud argument going on between Anna and some of the gods, but the human contingent didn’t care about that. They had their own agenda, which involved a bunch of Winchesters, one Campbell and one Harvelle reaching for each other in relief and comfort.

Mary choked on a sob at the sight of Dean and John, grabbing them in her arms. Jess was still pale but already standing on her own feet, leaning against Sam who was glued to her side. Dean hugged them all, and then let Jo punch him in the arm and Gwen scold him for losing the silver chain.

“This is good, we’re all here,” Dean said. “We should – oh, geez.”

John and Mary were already making out, whispering, “I’m sorry, no, I’m the one who’s sorry,” between frantic kisses. Sam and Dean shared a mutual look of surprise and then shrugged, because it was the end of the world.

“You guys got out okay,” Dean said. “For a moment I thought you wouldn’t show up.”

“Yeah, it was a bit of a mess,” Jo said. “Until Castiel, what was it, powered up? Got his Grace back? That took out all the demons. The angels were a little tougher. We’re lucky we got out of there at all, frankly.”

“What are we doing here, anyway?” Gwen asked.

The argument was now too loud to ignore. Castiel had joined Anna’s side and was talking calmly to the gods who were determined to have their opinions heard. Castiel was saying, “I’m not surprised that there was no consensus. Not all attendees were present.”

“You can’t expect us to get everyone back,” Kali said. “It was difficult enough doing it the first time.”

“Who asked you to go ahead without me?” Anna asked sharply. “You were supposed to wait. You saw the mess at the auction. You knew we’d be held back.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel said. “It must be done. Anna and I will help.”

Baldur snorted. “Yes, like they’ve suddenly changed their minds and would ever start listening to angels,” he said dryly. “Look, we got your Prophet’s book as _she_ said we should but it’s useless. There was nothing in it we could use.”

“You weren’t reading between the lines,” Castiel said. “And that doesn’t even matter because not all rightful attendees were present. Considering that the purpose of our alliance is to stop the world from ending, wouldn’t it be a foolish oversight if humanity wasn’t represented?”

“Them?” Baldur cast an unimpressed glance at the humans. “Isn’t it their fault that the world’s ending in the first place? And _your_ fault that reality’s in danger of falling apart entirely?”

“All the more reason why we should have been in the discussion,” Castiel pointed out calmly. “Call everyone back and I will apologize when we gather. There _must_ be a second seating.” He popped open the sleeve cuff of his shirt, offering his wrist. “A goodwill favor, freely given.”

Kali narrowed her eyes but took his hand, slicing the vein open with a touch.

Castiel’s face was composed and expectant. His expression remained unchanged when he turned his head to meet Dean’s worried gaze.

“Accepted with gratitude,” Kali said, palming the vial full of Castiel’s blood. “We’ll have the second seating.”

Dean waited until the gods were gone before he said, “We’re going to be part of that?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “But you may rest while we wait. It’s my understanding that Zao Jun has some very comfortable rooms and—”

“No, no, wait,” Dean said, and Castiel fell silent. “What do you expect us to do? Why are we here?”

“You are here because humanity should have a say,” Castiel said. “While I was indisposed—”

“You mean, while you were human and didn’t know a goddamn thing,” Dean corrected.

“Well, yes,” Castiel said, glancing away awkwardly. “While I was in Lawrence, Anna continued my work in contacting all the gods and supernatural beings that were agreeable to talk. Together, we may be powerful enough to put Lucifer back in his cage permanently and stop the Apocalypse from reaching its full conclusion.”

“Oh, is _that_ all,” Dean said. “Well.”

“But we’re just normal people,” Sam said uncomfortably. “I mean, compared to… the other guys. The ones in the books – you know what I mean.”

Anna smiled at them warmly. “All the more reason for you to have a voice. Most of the gods have a very… detached way of looking at the world. You guys actually count, so you should be here.”

That distinct phrasing – _you guys actually count_ – startled Dean.

He’d considered their involvement a tenuous connection at best; he and Sam were only important because the _other_ Dean and Sam were important, so it was unnerving for him to hear Anna claim otherwise. Castiel claimed the same thing as he brought them upstairs to rest while they waited to be called in for the next gathering. Becky was already there and squealed when she saw them, having a belated freakout at recognizing everyone (except Gwen, who just sighed).

Jo immediately turned on the television, where the news anchor was detailing a 9.2 earthquake along the Eastern Seaboard. Sam lead the still-tired Jess to a settee, lifting her legs on to his lap while she curled up for a nap.

John dropped into the nearest chair. Dean joined him, muttering, “Damn, I think I need a drink.”

“I think I need a smoke,” John replied, fingers twitching on his knees. “Something huge and indulgent, like one of those ridiculous cigars your mom used to make fun of.” He ran a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said.

“I wanted all of us to get back together but not like this,” John said, voice muffled behind his hand. “Not like this.” Dean held his tongue and thought about the John in the books; that man wasn’t his father but a vaguely similar shadow driven to madness in his grief.

Across from them, Mary was talking to Sam softly, saying, “It was a mistake” with her head bowed and his hand in hers. “I know that doesn’t excuse—”

“Mom,” Sam said, pulling her into a hug. She fell rigidly against him and only relaxed when he said, “I know very well how good people can do questionable things, if pushed hard enough. Mom, I _know_.”

On the other side of the room, Becky blew her nose.

“At least we’re together,” Dean said. He watched Sam kiss Mary’s cheek, both of them still murmuring softly. “You might want to talk to Sam, though. It’s time for it.”

“He won’t talk to me,” John muttered.

“Don’t use that, Dad,” Dean said, sighing. “Not now.”

John snorted, hand knocking the back of Dean’s head affectionately. “Yeah. Guess not.” He caught Mary’s eye and she nodded, standing up and moving away for John to have his go. Sam stiffened when John approached, mild alarm in the widening of his eyes.

Dean shaped his hand into a gun, pointing it at Sam and pulling the trigger. Sam made a face at his brother but didn’t walk away when John sat down next to him.

“Dean,” Castiel said, slipping into the chair John had just vacated. “Your father isn’t—”

“No, Cas,” Dean said flatly. “No. You don’t get to say.”

“Oh.” Castiel pulled back, surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Dean felt a rush of relief when John and Sam started talking haltingly. That was better than the nothing at all it had been before, so he turned his attention to Castiel. “It’s more complicated than what I told you before, even before all of this started. We are…” He shrugged helplessly, unable to articulate how Mary, John, Sam and him related to each other, how they sometimes fit seamlessly and sometimes didn’t.

“You have each other now,” Castiel said tentatively. “That’s what’s important.”

“I thought about introducing you to them when Sam and Jess came down for Thanksgiving,” Dean said, chuckling softly. “Had hoped maybe Dad would’ve made up a bit with Mom; that they could be in the same room by then. This ain’t nothing like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said.

Dean started in surprise, confused by Castiel’s sheepish expression, his tight shoulders. “What? You had nothing to do with it.” He paused. “Whoa, déjà vu.”

“Thinking about the night you told me about your argument with Sam?” Castiel ventured, smiling slowly. “Feels so long ago, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, mind whirling. How bugfuck strange it was, he thought, that they were here, gods and angels and humans all under the same roof, when just a couple of days ago the biggest worry in Dean’s life had been whether he needed to buy more dish soap for his apartment. “Geez, Cas, I’ve actually _met_ your family since then, and they…”

“I know, they suck,” Castiel said, nodding. “Except Anna, who I’m quite fond of.”

“Man…” Dean leaned back, studying Castiel in wonderment. He hadn’t done it earlier, but now he could just _look_ , overlaying what he’d learned over what he’d assumed before. “I can’t believe I was a distraction from your super important angel business.”

“Oh, that’s not the full story,” Castiel said, shifting closer to him. “Zachariah was… He has this ‘shtick’, I believe you’d call it, where he plays with people’s heads, tries to manipulate them in order to fulfill a goal. When I was made human, he made me think I owed him things and planted me near you in an attempt to manipulate both of us. Me, because of the role I’d played in changing history, and you, because he believed you were still to be Michael’s vessel.”

“But I’m not, right?” Dean said quickly. “I can’t be. Sam and me – we looked at the books. Michael’s vessel is supposed to be a Righteous Man, a warrior and all that. And Sam’s completely different, there’s no way he can be… you know.” He glanced over to where Sam and John were shaking hands. John’s jaw was tight but he slapped Sam’s arm in a reasonably friendly gesture before getting up to move to Mary’s side. Sam exhaled slowly, and so did Dean.

“Zachariah thought he could revert the timeline,” Castiel said, which made Dean stiffen. “I think he was operating under the assumption that since I could rewrite history, I also have the ability to set things back the way they were. That’s why he laid the trap for me. But I don’t see how Zachariah’s plan could’ve worked, and you’re right, things are far too different for your roles to play out the way the other angels want.”

“That’s good.” Dean nodded rapidly, relieved to have that confirmed. “That’s good. Wait, what do mean, when Zach laid a trap for you?”

“Your car accident,” Castiel said, shrugging. “He had the Impala tampered with, knowing that I would intervene. You are my weakness, after all.”

Dean blinked. “Oh.”

“I couldn’t let you die like that.” Castiel ducked his head sheepishly. “You deserve a long, full life. I was the one who was careless and didn’t get away in time.”

“So…” Dean couldn’t help the inappropriate smile threatening to split his face. “Technically, you _were_ acting as my guardian angel.”

The exasperated look Castiel gave Dean at that moment was like the half-dozen similar looks he’d given him back at the McArthur house, when it’d just been them and their weird dance around each other. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed.

“Dean,” Castiel said, touching his knee. “We have a few hours before the gods reconvene.”

Dean almost laughed. Castiel started to pull his hand back but Dean caught his wrist quickly. There were indeed big things mucking everything up – time travel and so-called destiny and alternate realities where the people Dean loved were broken or gone – but that just made this one easy thing seem all the more a good idea.

So Dean leaned towards Castiel, whose skin he could still taste on his tongue, and said, “Yeah.”

They excused themselves. John did a double-take but held back his comment when Mary squeezed his arm. Gwen and Jo were preoccupied with conversation, while Becky merely narrowed a suspicious squint at them but said nothing.

When Dean passed by Sam, he whispered a quick, “Make sure Dad doesn’t read any of the books.” Sam nodded his firm agreement.

Castiel lead Dean to a room, one among many of Zao Jun’s guest rooms. It was a little showy, like the rest of the house, not that Dean could appreciate all of that since he was busy shoving Castiel up against a wall and mouthing hotly at his neck.

“Oh,” Castiel gasped. “Yes, please, Dean, _yes_.”

They kissed until kisses weren’t enough, and Dean lowered himself down to his knees. He popped the buttons of Castiel’s pants as he went, lips fumbling around Castiel’s shaft until he used his hand to guide it into his mouth. Dean hummed his pleasure at the feel of Castiel’s cock forcing his lips apart and sliding hotly over his tongue. So much was Dean’s enjoyment, that it took him a while to notice that Castiel tasted different.

Dean looked up. Castiel was watching him and panting helplessly. That, at least, was the same. What wasn’t the same was the lack of salty tang in Dean’s mouth.

Dean slid his hands up Castiel’s sides and pushed his shirt up. Castiel’s body had been renewed by his returned power, so what Dean found under his hands was empty canvas, free from the scars he’d traced with his tongue the last time they’d been together.

“Cas,” Dean said, pulling off. Sex was easy; he didn’t want to think about what else had changed when it was clear that their want of each other hadn’t. He turned to the huge four-posted bed, pulling off his clothes as he went. “Come on, let’s fuck.”

Castiel laughed softly, matching Dean’s careless striptease and joining him on the bed. They rolled around a while, kissing and pawing at each other until Castiel shifted on top.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, once he’d settled on Dean’s lap.

“Hey, yourself,” Dean replied with a grin. The lack of sweat on Castiel’s body was unnerving but his kisses were still hungry, his hands roving everywhere. When Castiel shamelessly ground against Dean’s erection, it was still good enough that Dean bucked up and cursed. “Don’t suppose you have any…”

At a flick of Castiel’s hand, a condom and pack of lube landed near Dean’s head.

“Well,” Dean said. “That’s, uh, new.”

Castiel didn’t hear Dean’s disquiet. He was focused on getting the show on the road, preparing himself quickly and then sliding the condom on Dean’s dick.

There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that he still wanted this, but Castiel was moving too fast, already rising up and guiding Dean’s cock into him. Dean said, “Hey, wait” but Castiel was sinking down, too fast and too tight, until he was firmly seated in Dean’s lap.

“Fuck!” Dean yelped, shaking at the shock of being buried deep so quickly. Even through the haze of pleasure he railed, digging his fingers into Castiel’s waist to stop him. “Cas, you’ve never—” He groaned when Castiel shoved down hard.

“Dean, this is…” Castiel squeezed around Dean. “You’re…”

Dean gazed up blearily, choking out a breathless, “Hot damn” when he realized that Castiel was enjoying himself. A smile had lifted the corners of Castiel’s mouth, and he shifted carefully, testing the give of where their bodies were joined. Dean watched, dizzy and amazed, as Castiel figured out how to make Dean’s cock move inside him.

“You like that, huh,” Dean said, getting an answer when Castiel found his rhythm and starting riding Dean in earnest.

There was no threat of Dean coming first. Dean did enjoy the view of Castiel utterly lost in the moment, but the pace was all Castiel’s. He rolled his hips firmly, whimpering and clenching down in his demand for pleasure. In no time Castiel’s rocking took a frantic pace, moving on Dean’s dick in small, sharp movements that forced Dean to brace his hands and feet against the mattress.

Dean lay back and let Castiel have it. All Dean could do was grin and bear it, teeth rattling and vision whiting out as Castiel fucked his way to orgasm on Dean’s cock.

It was almost a relief when Castiel came, his release punctuated by a wordless shout. Dean shuddered at the splatter of semen across his chest.

When Castiel finally slowed down, Dean reached up to brush Castiel’s damp hair away from his eyes. “You’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Castiel said, his gravel voice raspier than usual. He pushed against Dean’s hand contentedly. “I’m sorry, that was… I missed you.”

“Yeah?” Dean grinned, even though it felt like his teeth were going to fall out from how hard Castiel had worked him. “I’m just that smokin’, huh?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said, his faux annoyance belied by the way he circled his hips slowly, getting the cock still inside him fully interested again.

This was more Dean’s pace, Castiel’s languid movements bringing back the slow boil of arousal in his groin. Dean shoved his hips up to drive himself deep into Castiel’s heat, and Castiel accepted him, matching Dean movement for movement. Castiel’s hands were gentle where they stroked his chest, fingernails catching his nipples and palm pausing over his heart.

When Castiel’s hand lingered, Dean found his mind wandering to an unwanted thought.

He looked up at Castiel, whose eyes had gone a little glazed. He was still petting Dean but that hand hadn’t moved from its place. Dean grabbed it, squeezing the bony wrist in warning. When Castiel went still, Dean’s gaze moved down to where he’d scratched Castiel’s waist. Before Dean’s eyes the scratches disappeared, healing over into perfect clean skin.

“Be with me,” Dean said.

Castiel frowned. “I am, Dean.”

“No,” Dean growled. He grabbed Castiel’s hips and rolled them over. When Castiel landed on his back, Dean quickly crawled between his legs. “You need to be with _me._ ”

“But…” Castiel trailed off, confused but compliant while Dean shoved Castiel’s knees up and apart, finding a new angle to fuck.

“Guardian angel,” Dean muttered, guiding himself back into Castiel. He scowled as he scrutinized the place where Castiel was exposed and stretched. The skin of Castiel’s rim was clear, no swelling or redness at all. Dean’s cock pushed him open, the give slick and perfect, taking everything without complaint. “Yeah, I get it, now.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, touching him hesitantly. He lifted his hips to give Dean better access, and Dean took it. Dean fucked him firmly, hips snapping as he tested Castiel’s body and found it willing. Castiel could take it all because he was an angel again, and everything that came with it. “Dean—”

“I said be _with me_!” Dean snarled, pushing Castiel’s hand off his heart. “Not him, don’t think about him!”

“Who?” Castiel asked, but Dean just grunted and shoved in one last time.

It was a good, toe-curling orgasm. Dean was buried as deep as he could go, balls right up against Castiel’s body during his release.

Dean was shaking when he pulled out. He lingered briefly on the sight of Castiel’s body – the attractive flush already gone – and then drew away, making the trek to the bathroom and back. Dean could feel Castiel’s worried gaze on him throughout, along with the press of the conversation he was unable to weasel out of.

“Dean.” Castiel touched Dean’s arm when he returned, emboldened when Dean didn’t shake him off. “What is it?”

“You were thinking of him,” Dean said. When Castiel asked him to clarify he said, “Him! Dean! That guy – that guy who’s a hunter and has a tattoo right here!” He touched his chest where Castiel had been fondling, though Dean’s skin was clear of ink.

“But…” Castiel stared at Dean, confused. “But that’s you.”

“No, Cas, that’s _not_ me,” Dean said. “That’s the whole point. All that stuff that happened – that was real to _you_ , that was history to _you_. To me, that’s just some distant – semi-fiction – alternate whatever – that happened to someone else.”

“Dean.” Castiel approached Dean, much closer than Dean wanted, and cupped his face. “I know you. The circumstances of this life may be different—”

“You want _him_ , don’t you?” Dean accused. “When you said I’m your weakness, you really meant him. You didn’t even know me when you saved my life that night, did you?”

“That makes no sense,” Castiel said, bewildered. “You will always be Dean, born of Mary and John, it’s just the steps your life has taken since then that have changed—”

“And that’s what makes us who we are!” Dean pushed Castiel’s hands away. “I’m not that guy. I can’t even imagine having that kind of life, let alone do what he did.”

“But you _did_ do it,” Castiel said. “I was there, I saw it.”

“Oh, okay,” Dean said, “So you’re saying that Sam, _my_ Sam, is still the sort of person who could let Lucifer, the fucking King of Hell, free?”

“No!” Castiel ran a frustrated hand over his face, not believing that they were having this argument. “ _Your_ Sam is still the Sam that would do anything for the people he loves, but in this lifetime he’s never been pushed into a corner by forces that would seek to use him.”

“Aha!” Dean said triumphantly. “That right there makes all the difference. We aren’t the sum of our experiences, but we _are_ made up of a lot of ‘em. This is who _I_ am, Cas. I’m not a hunter, I’m not a hero, and I’m sure as hell not the guy you fucking gripped tight and raised from perdition. Shut up, I read the chapter with your barn entrance, I know what I’m talking about.”

“I would really like to hurt you right now,” Castiel said crossly. “I wanted you before I could remember ever having known you in another life. You are good and kind, and have shown such compassion to me and your loved ones without a thought of yourself. How is that an unworthy life?”

“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

“Fine!” Castiel snapped. “If you’re so adamant on thinking yourself separate and lesser for your experiences, then know that _that_ Dean never touched me the way you have.”

“Yeah?” Dean countered, “It was probably the angel thing.”

Castiel fell silent. He stared at Dean, that statement sinking in and forcing Castiel to avert his eyes. “Yes… I can see how ‘the angel thing’ would be a problem.” Castiel slid off the bed and started picking up his clothes.

Dean was too angry and too pleased about his petty victory to realize that Castiel’s movements were of acceptance.

“Tell me this, Dean.” Castiel’s expression was cool and impassive, ready for any answer. “Are you happy in this life? With your family?”

Dean started. “Of course. I mean, we’re not perfect, but that’s… Yeah.”

“Then that’s one thing I will not be sorry for,” Castiel said. He pulled on his shirt, buttoning up the cuffs briskly. “I will notify everyone when the gods have come together. You might want to get some sleep until then.”

Castiel vanished. Dean knew that he was capable of doing that, but he still jumped.

After a long moment, Dean relaxed.

  


* * *

  
Dean was tired but he didn’t sleep in the guest room. He had a shower, salvaged his clothes and went back out to the lounge, only to learn from Sam that Mary and John had taken a leaf out of his book and gone off to spend similar quality time together.

“Ew,” Dean said automatically. Sam snickered, watching while Dean dropped into the next chair. “Jess okay?”

“For now,” Sam said quietly, still stroking her hair. Jess was asleep, but her eyes were moving behind her eyelids and her hand occasionally squeezing Sam’s. “Where’s Cas?”

“Business to deal with.”

Sam gave him a sympathetic look. “Would’ve been nice to meet him under different—”

“If if if,” Dean muttered, kicking off his shoes and propping his feet up on the table. “Everything’s a whole bunch of ifs, and wishing for anything other than what we have accomplishes fuck all.”

Sam frowned. “Dean?”

“Not now,” Dean said, closing his eyes. “Having a nap.” He ignored Sam’s sigh of disappointment. Sleep made it easier not to think about anything.

He woke up to Jo shaking him firmly. “It’s time,” she said. “They’re gathering.”

The council of gods and spirits was not as grand as Dean had expected. There was a hall filled with tables and chairs in layers of concentric circles. Most of the occupants were in human shape, and those that weren’t, Dean could squint and in his human ways pretend that they were merely people dressed up for an early Halloween.

Becky, in a show of confidence, waved at a few of the gods she recognized before taking up a place, gesturing for the rest of them to follow. Dean dropped into a chair with little decorum, for as far as he was concerned, they were here only as observers.

“Welcome,” said Anna, once the doors closed and everyone was seated. “I am Anna, once known as Haniel. I’m deeply grateful that you’ve agreed to return to this council, which relates to all of our fates.”

Dean half-listened to her greetings and salutations, preoccupied more with keeping as low a profile as possible. Beside him, Sam was curiously studying the gods and trying to identify as many as he could. When Sam’s gawking got him a hiss from a cat-goddess, Dean shoved at him and whispered, “Geekazoid.”

Sam shoved back, albeit sheepishly. “Shut up, this is blowing my mind.”

“So you are the one responsible,” said Baron Samedi, once Anna had finished her opening speech. “The Anna who went against all laws of nature and broke the threads of time.”

“We both did,” said Castiel, who was sitting next to her. “We made the decision together to go back and lie in wait in the Winchester nursery. But I was the one who slayed Azazel before he could touch Sam, causing history to rewrite itself.”

“And how is this better?” Odin grumbled, to which some of the gods mumbled their agreement. “At least we knew what was happening before. We could have stood up to Lucifer together, kicked him to the ends of the Earth.”

“Hear hear,” said Baldur. “Just look at us. We’re a roomful of gods, the power of the universe at our fingertips. What is Lucifer, compared to us?”

They argued further down that line while Dean listened in with a growing sense of unease. He glanced at Castiel, who had his best poker face on and was unperturbed that the gods were narrowing their frustration on him.

“What you’ve done will destroy us all,” said Isis, leaning forward to glare at Castiel and Anna. “It is just as dangerous as Lucifer, maybe more. Mortals and lower demons may not feel the rift – they are simple beings, after all – but the rest of us are deeply affected by what you’ve done. You should not have messed with history, angel. I can feel Lucifer clawing out from where he’s still trapped in the echoes of the past.”

“And the Horsemen still roam free!” Baron Samedi added.

“Look!” said Ganesh, slamming his fist down on the table. “Whine all you want, but this reality is still better than the one we were in before. Lucifer was _free_ until those two did something about it. We have more time now than we had before.”

“But we need Lucifer permanentlytrapped,” Kali said. “Not temporarily trapped, and certainly not causing the fabric of reality to tear even more every time he tries to get out. You! Satan vessel!”

Sam jumped. He stared at the perfectly manicured finger pointing at him. “Um?”

“Has Lucifer spoken to you?” Kali asked.

Sam flushed under the scrutiny. “In a dream, so… yes?”

“There!” Kali said with flourish. “Lucifer is already powerful enough to have started seducing his vessel. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks out entirely, and then what? Everything collapses and there won’t be anything left to save at all.”

“We should turn it back,” said Baldur, which made Dean sit up sharply. “Undo their mistake so that things will go back to the way they were, and we can face Lucifer head-on.”

“That way lies your death,” Anna said.

“Oh,” Kali huffed, “You arrogant—”

“It’s not fair, I know,” Anna said, her voice hard. “Lucifer isn’t like me, or Castiel, or any other angel you may have met.He is beautiful and terrible beyond measure. He caused the first upheaval in Heaven, the stories of which are as magnificent as any of your own. There’s a reason people worship him. That makes him as much a god as you all are, and he _will_ kill you.”

“Gods can die,” the Jade Emperor said calmly. “It stands to reason that Lucifer can be killed as well.”

“It is said, only at Michael’s hand,” Castiel declared. “But I don’t believe that’s true. He must have a weakness, something we can exploit or use against him.”

Anna turned to Castiel, shocked. “Cas, you know that’s not true. Only Michael can kill Lucifer.”

“So we were _told_ ,” Castiel said to her. “We were told many things, Anna.”

“No,” Anna said, staring at him in disbelief. “There’s no killing Lucifer – you _know_ this. That’s why we went on that crazy mission in the first place, because the only chance we have is to trap him, not fight him.”

“I say we stand against Lucifer,” Baldur said.

“No!” Anna slammed her fists against her table. “I’ve had a glimpse of the end of things and there’s only death there. There is no standing against Lucifer. You have to believe me.”

“Your brother thinks otherwise,” Odin pointed out.

“Lucifer is already half-trapped where he is,” Isis said. “If we want to stand against him effectively, we’d have to release him. That cannot be done without risking the destruction of everything, so we must turn history back to the way it was.”

Dean shuddered. “No.”

Castiel shook his head at the gods. “You wish that we undo it? Zachariah thought the same. Even if we wanted to, how would it be done?”

“No,” Dean said.

“Lucifer was already warming up the fires to burn the world,” Anna said, shaking with anger. “His army rising, the Horsemen loose, his virus ready to be unleashed. That we’d managed to delay him at all was a miracle and you want to undo all of that?”

Dean stood up. “No!”

The sudden silence made the hall feel much larger than it really was.

“Um.” Dean glanced down awkwardly at Sam, who was as shocked as he was. The gods were all watching him expectantly, so Dean stood straight and tried not to fidget.“Let me get this straight.”

“Get to the point, man who is an angel vessel,” Kali said.

“Hey,” Dean protested. He was surprised when Kali merely fluttered her fingers at him to continue. “Basically, what we’ve got going on here is that we want to trap Lucifer, right? Because that’s the only thing we know will work for sure. Fighting is 50-50 if we’re lucky but trapping is a sure thing, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel said slowly, curious.

Dean took a deep breath. “Well, according to Becky—” who squeaked, “—this, _everything_ this, didn’t start that night the demon fed Sam his blood. It started before that, when my mother made her deal. It started at that thing, that… what was it?”

Becky murmured something.

“What?” Dean asked.

“ _In the Beginning_ ,” Becky said, with a little more confidence. “The one where—”

“I took Dean back in time so he could witness the deal,” Castiel said. What he really meant was: the one where he’d brought Dean back in time so he could cause the deal to happen in the first place. Castiel touched Anna’s arm, realization lighting up his face. “The theory was sound, but we chose the wrong point.”

Anna turned to Castiel, contemplative. “Would that trap him?”

“It should,” Castiel said. “It might. Or it could destroy everything the moment we try.”

“Care to share with the rest of us?” Kali asked.

“We can make it so that Lucifer was never released from the cage in the first place. And do it _properly._ ” Castiel was practically glowing with excitement, a new plan formulating in his mind. “It isn’t Azazel we have to take out of the picture, it’s _me_.”

Dean started. “Hey, wait—”

“It could work.” Castiel reached under the table to pull out a massive parchment. He started drawing on it in bold strokes, for even angels and gods needed schematics on occasion. “If I’m out of the picture, then Dean never gets caught in this time loop, _history_ never gets caught in this time loop, and it smoothes out. Never was. Everyone moves along their individual destinies, none the wiser.”

Kali, Baldur, and some of the more short-sighted gods drew close to observe his drawing. The parchment was only in two dimensions but Castiel improvised well with the limitations he had.

Anna watched his schematic take shape and stifled a laugh of vicious delight. “If this is right, the other angels will keep going on, never realizing the missed opportunity. They’d still mark couples to see what sticks, hoping that one will produce the right vessels in the right combination, and claim it was destined that way all along. Hell, they’ve been doing it for two thousand years. They can just keep on ticking!”

“It might not happen that way,” Kali said. She tapped a point on the drawing. “Everything else will have to be removed. All remnants of this reality and the reality before it have to be completely destroyed, or else its echoes will haunt and influence as they do now and another angel may take Castiel’s role.”

“We can do it,” Castiel said fiercely. “All of us, right here, right now, we can come to an accord. We are powerful enough to do it.”

“Powerful enough to kill truth?” the Jade Emperor asked. “To kill a part of history, even a piece as small as this, is to kill a part of ourselves.”

“Better to die a little than to die entirely,” Isis said reasonably. “I find this plan intriguing and will put my hand in with you, Castiel and Haniel.”

Mary stood up, a human out to have her say. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You want to rewrite history _again_?”

“We made a mistake the last time,” Castiel said. “Our intention was to remove your sons’ involvement from the story, as they are the perfect storm – the perfect pawns for Heaven and Hell to unleash their war.”

“But Lucifer can still be released,” Mary said. “If not by Dean and Sam, then by someone else.”

“Eventually, yes,” Castiel admitted, “But your sons – I apologize, your sons as they _once were_ – lived unique circumstances. It would take a long time for chance and history to tread a similar path.”

“Destiny’s nothing but good marketing,” Anna said. She caught Castiel’s side-eye of disapproval and quipped, “What? I’m sorry, Cas. I still don’t think our Father’s involved anymore. We _are_ making it up as we go along. We’ve probably been doing it for a long time. We’re just… good at lying to ourselves.”

Kali was still stroking the parchment contemplatively. As a goddess of death and transformation, she could see merit in this plan, but there were parts that still gave her pause. “If we destroy everything that came before, none of us will be any more prepared for Lucifer’s eventual rise later than we are now.”

“But…” Baldur said slowly, “Assuming that Lucifer can’t be killed, any effort we make _would_ simply be a matter of giving us more time. Giving this world and everything in it more time.”

Odin ran a hand over his beard. “Everything must end eventually. Even us gods must concede that forever isn’t as long as it used to be.”

“Hey, hey, wait a minute,” John said, raising a head. “No messing around now. Give it to us straight, no frills. What does that mean _exactly_?”

“Everything from that point of time will start over,” Castiel said. “Only, if things go the way we want, Mary will never make her deal.”

“But Dean and Sam, they’ll be okay?” John pressed.

“All human souls have their place carved out in this world,” Kali said. “Your children will be born. Your concern is irrelevant.”

Ganesh leaned forward, his ancient gaze on Sam and Dean. “What do you think of this, Winchester sons? I would like to know.”

Dean and Sam looked at each other. After a moment, Sam said, “I don’t think we can really say. Our lives are pretty good the way they are now, and how can we really predict what else would change? _I_ would be happy never to be the target of a demon, but that’s just me. We won’t remember any of this, anyway.”

“But you wouldn’t want to go back to your true selves?” Ganesh pressed. “You’ve seen your Prophet’s books, seen the contribution you’d made once to the world.”

“That’s not fair,” Mary said sharply. “That timeline may be real to you, but this one is real to us.”

Kali frowned faintly. “And this timeline will be destroyed as well. For all of us.”

“Would you be willing?” Ganesh asked.

Dean thought about the world falling apart. He thought about having his eyes opened, of seeing and learning things that had always been there but just out of sight. He thought about Mary and John, of Sam and Jess, of Jo and Gwen and Bobby, of a life of purpose and loss that had once belonged to him. And he thought of Castiel, who was watching and waiting for his answer with the rest of them.

“It’s worth it,” Dean said. “The world’s worth us taking this chance.”

Castiel smiled.

“A little death, to avoid the big death,” Isis said. She stood to her feet, nodding in respect towards Sam and Dean. “We have work to do.”

Raising his voice so to address the entire hall, Castiel said, “If we can come to an agreement?”

There was no absolute accord, of course. Gods were difficult enough to wrangle under one roof, let alone come to an even keel of a solution. Some gods walked out, unwilling to participate in something they didn’t believe in or were secretly afraid of. Other gods stayed, but most of them had figured that if it failed then it wouldn’t matter, and if it succeeded there wouldn’t be any consequences since no one would remember it anyway.

Their undertaking was just shy of impossible, but with numerous gods and two angels with time-traveling abilities working together, a cohesive plan took shape. It was beyond the understanding of the human contingent, who could only guess at how it would affect them.

“The deal I made changed my life,” Mary said. “I’d undo it in a heartbeat, yes, but if it never happened at all?”

“I don’t know, Mary,” John said. “That sounds like a good thing to my ears.”

Anna splayed her hands helplessly, unable to offer any stronger answers. “We can’t predict everything that’ll happen but there’s no plan anywhere that doesn’t have any risks. Castiel and I, when we took that leap back in time to take Azazel out? The risks were much bigger because we didn’t have a clue what we were doing.”

Mary turned to the others who’d been otherwise quiet throughout the discussions. “How about you? Do you have anything to say?”

Gwen shrugged, resigned but not bitter. “This hardly concerns us at all, does it? I don’t know. It’s your call, really.”

“I’d say go for it,” Jo said, “But it’s not my life that’d be most changed by this.”

Becky’s smile was a little shaky. “I just live here.”

Mary sighed reluctantly. “I don’t know…”

“But Mom, we’re just small fry, right?” Dean said. He briefly glanced over to where Castiel, Kali and Perses the Titan were debating how to dissolve the timelines effectively. “You and Dad will still get together. It’s just Sammy who gets to walk away from this Lucifer-wearing business. For that? Hell yeah, I’m game.”

Sam winced. “But Dean—”

“Hey, it’s not just you,” Dean said, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. “This is the whole world, right? Billions of people and a chance for them to have a little bit more of a future? If that’s the case, bring on that little bit of risk.”

“And that,” Castiel said as he approached, “is why underneath all the trappings, you will always be the Dean I know.” Dean turned away and tried not to flush.

“But you,” John said, scowling at Castiel. “You’re just going to…”

“As Dean said,” Castiel replied, “it’s worth it.”

Mary smiled ruefully. Her caution was warranted but Dean’s statement made it easier to step back and see what was at stake. “Okay, then. Do what you have to do.”

Anna nodded and drew close to Castiel’s side. “You got something?”

“It’ll take a lot of power, but yes, we have an idea how to proceed,” Castiel said. “But it has to be done quickly. The others say that Lucifer’s been gathering his strength. He’s been able to contact the demons and bring some over to his cause, so it’s a race, now.”

“You’re missing something.”

Death’s arrival was not like the arrival of an angel or a demon. Angels and demons had entrances, subtle announcements in the shift of the air that declared their important presence: _notice me_ , know me, _be afraid_. Death did not care for such things because death was everywhere and fear held no currency for him whatsoever.

He was simply there, at the table, standing a little between Dean and Mary as though he’d always been there.

“Jesus Christ!” Dean yelped, jerking back. “Where’d the hell you creep up from?”

“I’m always here, Dean,” Death said with a little smile that made Dean want to cross himself. “Nice to see you again.”

“You,” said Anna, raising her hands defensively. The gods nearby turned, most of them just as surprised. “You’re a Horseman. You’re of the Apocalypse, not one of us.”

“Yes, define me by my least favorite role,” Death said dryly. His shape on this particular day was that of a tall, pale man in dark clothes, but even the humans could see that that wasn’t all there was to him. “I’m an ally to all the gods, I do work for all religions and customs and cultures, so I don’t appreciate being pigeonholed, thank you.”

“Death of all things,” Castiel said, inclining his head.

“You were rather sharp with my Reaper,” Death chided, clucking his tongue. “Tessa hardly deserved your burns, and she is getting rather annoyed that Dean keeps slipping away from her.” Death, of course, remembered everything that ever was, but was too much of a gentleman to remind Dean of his multiple deaths in the other timeline.

Castiel stiffened guiltily. “Apologies.”

“No matter,” Death said, waving it off. A small space had formed around him, people and gods instinctively knowing to back away. “All things die, even history. Is it any surprise I’d be here? You’re deciding on the fate of the universe, _of course_ I’d be here. But your plan? Ah. The way it works, the way it’s always worked and will always work ‘til the end of time, is that someone has to remember the dead.”

“That’s a rule no god can go against either,” Kali said. “We may bend time and space, but not the absolute death.”

“Could you do it?” Anna asked slowly. “If we go forward with this, would you…?”

“Help?” Death’s smile was slow and thoughtful, for he knew intimately how the universe worked. “I’m not content to be made a… _Horseman_ , or to be bound to an angel, even one with plans as ambitious as Lucifer’s. I have better things to do, and this will ensure I will be free to do them.”

Castiel let out a breath, awed by Death’s gesture. “Then let’s proceed.”

  


* * *

  
This was how the humans spent their last hour before the plan went into action.

Becky was long gone, having asked to be returned to loved ones she could be with, even though she was aware that she would never remember any of this ever happening. She called as many of her nearby friends as she could get for an impromptu get-together, quite a few of them willing. There was coffee and chocolate and marshmallows, and then some mild role-playing that made Becky burst into tears, but she retained sense of mind to not reveal anything of what she’d learned.

Jo called her father, just to hear his voice. He reported in on the condition of the Roadhouse, relating how things were getting a little crazy and the place was getting packed because of hunters coming in for refuge. Jo sighed, thinking about the world in the books (she had a different parent in the books, she was _dead_ in the books), and let him go on, his words comforting for what they were.

Gwen also called family but only to report in that she was fine and everything would be fine. She then went to Zao Jun’s pantry and made another sandwich. She ended up standing there for a good, long time before Jo found her and held her.

The Winchesters remained in Zao Jun’s lounge. There wasn’t much to say, and anything they said would be forgotten soon anyway. It became an affair where they pulled their chairs close together, some of their hands interlinked, turning to small, inconsequential chatting while they waited.

Dean shot up from his seat when Castiel appeared. He’d hoped, but had been unable to voice what he wanted, knowing that Castiel had a lot of other things to worry about at the moment.

“Hey,” Dean said, patting sweaty hands down his jeans as he approached. “Everything going okay?”

“Yes, we’ll be departing soon,” Castiel said. “It has to be a simultaneous affair for it to work. There will be some who will resist, but if all of us go at the same time, it should be enough. And with Death on our side… well.”

“Lucky break,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Castiel said, in a tone of voice Dean knew well. It meant that important things were to come and that Dean had better pay attention because Castiel didn’t like repeating himself. “As pleased as I am by the outcome of our work, I must confess that I will regret never knowing you. In this life, and in the other, you have helped me in ways I will never be able to fully explain the depth of.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean said, pulling up a cocky smile, “You can’t—”

“I will be a lesser person for it,” Castiel said firmly. “I just wanted to say that. Thank you.”

Castiel was clearly prepared for this; it drove home to Dean how much _he_ wasn’t. “What’s going to happen to you?” Dean asked. “Are you going to die?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel said. “You won’t care after this.”

“Fuck that,” Dean hissed. “I’m going to forget, you’re going to forget, if you’re going to be alive at all, and what use is it? We’re giving _up_ something, Cas, and we’re just never going to know?”

Castiel sighed. “Is a good thing only worth doing if there are people to appreciate it?”

Dean deflated. “Of course not.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair, because it was easier than facing calm acceptance of it all. “I know it’s selfish, but the one useful thing I’m doing with my life, and I won’t even get to keep that?”

“ _One_ useful thing?” Castiel laughed softly. “Oh, Dean. That, too, remains a constant with you, in whatever universe.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, but Castiel’s fond smile only deepened. It was a look he couldn’t resist, so Dean kissed him.

There was a shocked huff of breath against Dean’s lips, and then Castiel was kissing back. It was almost like their first night together back in Dean’s apartment, the kisses soft and tentative despite the shift of new baggage underneath it all.

It would be nice, Dean thought, if they could keep doing this. If Castiel really was just a regular guy with a mild case of agoraphobia, and if Dean could find a way to get him out of whatever regular normal everyday debt Zachariah had over him, and if Castiel would eventually, maybe, think about moving into Dean’s apartment which was far nicer than a half-lived-in house anyway.

“Castiel.”

They pulled apart. Anna stood just behind them, beckoning to Castiel.

“So, yes,” Castiel said to Dean. “I will regret not knowing you.”

“Ditto,” Dean replied.

Castiel pretended to smile, but it was a poor attempt at misdirection because Dean held on to his hand when he tried to pull away. Castiel paused and, for the first time since he’d regained his Grace, felt conflicted about the surety of his mission (which was another thing Dean did to him often, and in any universe).

“I would’ve kept you,” Dean blurted out. “If it was — I didn’t mean — what I said before —”

“I know.” Castiel bent down to kiss Dean’s wrist, and carefully peeled Dean’s fingers off his hand. “It’s okay. This is a good place to end.”

Anna nodded at Dean when Castiel approached her. Dean watched them go and wasn’t surprised when Castiel didn’t look back.

“Dean,” Sam said, as soon as Dean dropped back into his seat. Dean averted his eyes but Sam pushed in close, touching Dean’s shoulder and saying, “Dean, you’ve got to know—”

“Shut it,” Dean said.

“But Dean—”

“I said drop it.”

“ _Dean_ ,” John said, and Dean’s head snapped up in surprise. Mary and John were sitting together, their hands intertwined; Dean had the brief, cruel thought that it took the end of the world for that to happen. “Come on, son. Not now.”

“It’s a small thing,” Dean said, saying it out loud in an attempt to convince himself. “I have you guys. Wouldn’t trade anything for that.”

“It’s not a competition,” Mary said, leaning across to squeeze his hand. “Sam, Dean, Jess. I love you all. I’ve made some huge mistakes in my life and we have no idea how any of this is going to turn out, but I hope – because there’s nothing wrong with hoping, Dean – that I’ll love you just as much there as I do now.”

“Maybe more,” John said, shifting closer to Mary’s side. “I hope I won’t be as much of a damned fool, given the new chance. Fat chance of that, maybe, but…” He shrugged.

“I hope I’ll still know you,” Jess said, head resting on Sam’s shoulder. Still tired, she shut her eyes, fingers curling into Sam’s shirt “I hope I’ll know you all.”

Sam kissed her temple. “I hope that, too.”

“Well.” Dean, who had nothing to add, leaned back in his chair. “How the hell will we know when—”

  


* * *

  
Time folded in on itself.

The piece of history under attack was tiny, barely a speck on the thread of existence, but the energy used against it was enormous. It died in increments, swallowed and torn apart by a pantheon of mix-matched gods, two angels guiding their work.

The echoes of the original timeline and the timeline that came after it – of Sam and Dean, orphaned nomadic hunters who changed the world, and Sam and Dean, guided by new civilian forces in their lives – fluttered and winked out, and then never were at all.

Then the killing bent inwards, gods sacrificing their own awareness. One by one they dropped away from the mission, successful and never knowing.

At long last, the conspiracy was reduced to Death, Castiel and Anna.

“You’ve patched it up rather neatly,” Death said, his expert’s eye critical. “I do like it when things are neat. Makes the entropy of the universe much tidier to deal with.”

“Glad we meet your approval,” Anna said dryly.

“Now, now,” Death said, turning his endless gaze upon the pause of the universe. “There _are_ gaps, but they’re minute and will never be noticed. You’d be surprised what even angels and gods don’t notice, such self-centered creatures they are.”

“No disagreement from me,” Anna said.

“You don’t need to do this,” Castiel said worriedly to Anna. “You can erase your memory with the others, go back to Heaven and play out the rest of your life.”

“Oh, please,” Anna said, rolling her eyes. “You’re not the only wildcard in this game, Cas. Bothof us rebelled against Heaven. We went back in time and fucked things up _together_. I don’t care that you think you’re responsible because you were the one to do the actual killing. We should both be taken out, to make sure this can never be undone.”

“Are you quite finished?” Death said. Time was fluid, but around them Earth’s universe was bookmarked on a brand new April 30, 1973, which would flourish with rebooted life as soon as Death gave the signal. “The world’s waiting.”

“Yes, yes,” Anna said. She stepped towards Death, and glanced over her shoulder when Castiel didn’t follow. “Oh, come on, Cas. No one’s going to miss two angels from Heaven. At this point in time we’re nothing – just grunts in the field. You know how angels go missing all the time.”

“I can’t argue that logic,” Castiel said, stepping forward within Death’s reach. “I’ve died before, yet I still feel…”

“Afraid?” Anna smile warmly and raised her hand. Castiel glanced at her palm dubiously, but accepted the high-five. Anna beamed. “I hoped you’d get here eventually.”

“Come, come,” Death said, impatient. He opened his hands.

Anna and Castiel didn’t scream when Death ripped out their Grace. It was given willingly, a small sacrifice in the larger scheme of things.

Then they were gone and there was but Death, standing on the endless abyss of the aether with the Grace of an angel in each hand.

Death turned and said, “You’re not going to say You planned this all along, are You?” His gaze was just on the edge of disdainful, but he always looked at Me that way. “I’m free once again, Lucifer is trapped for now, and Your little pet project will roll along happily for a little while longer. Anna was accurate in her summation, wasn’t she, that it’s all just excellent marketing?”

I didn’t give him an answer, because I never do.

The last remnants of Castiel and Anna pulsed steadily in Death’s palms. He regarded them as one would a specimen of something fascinating but inconsequential, like a perfectly symmetrical leaf.

“This whole mess came about because You decided it’d be fun to play favorites,” Death said. “I told You that wouldn’t end well, and yet here You are; bringing Castiel back, letting Anna regain her powers. Oh, I see, and You’d even do it again, wouldn’t You?”

It was a dark place out there in the pause between the death of the last and the start of the new. It was almost peaceful, not that Death cared for such things.

“Anna has a space meant for her,” Death said. “But now she will be entire and not simply fallen. And Castiel, _ah_ , no one really notices the spares, do they? There is no destroying life, only transference. Thank small favors, that’s one of the universe’s rules, not Yours.”

I kept my silence and did not interfere when he squeezed down their Grace. Death’s hands could reshape entire planets if he so wanted; coal into diamonds the least of his abilities. When he reopened his hands, his palms glowed with new light.

In this case, Death was correct. No one would notice the spares.


	5. Epilogue

For all intents and purposes, the day that Dean met ~~Castiel~~ was the day Tamara arrived with an emergency.

It was a few hours before opening time, so Dean was wiping down the bar and not expecting company at all. This meant that when Tamara slammed against the doors, Dean switched his washcloth for a shotgun in two seconds flat, keeping the weapon up until he unlocked the door and watched Tamara walk over the Devil’s Trap burned into the floor.

“Hunt gone bad,” she said, breathing heavily. “You were the closest. Got an infected one with me.”

Dean bit back a curse and lowered the gun. “Bring ‘em in. What is it?”

“Vampire bite,” Tamara said. “The others went after the nest but Isaac said that you know something about a cure?”

“Not me but I do know a guy,” Dean said, heading for the phone cabinet. He punched the speed dial that went straight to Bobby. “Hey, Bobby, good to talk?”

“ _Yeah, what do you need now_?” Bobby asked.

“Tamara just showed up from a vamp hunt.” Dean watched as she and another guy came through the doors, working together to carry in a wan, pale woman. Dean gestured for them to put her on one of the tables, which they did. “Someone got bit. You think you can get some joy juice for me?”

“ _Jesus, Dean,_ ” Bobby grouched,“ _Don’t be such a baby and ask them yourself._ ”

“Aww, come on.” Dean reached under the counter to pull out some clean cloths and a bottle of garlic essence. “Christian’s a petty little ass-wipe. He’s not going to give me anything of Grandpa Samuel’s without forcing an unfair trade.”

“ _Then ask your mother to ask ‘em_.”

“She’s on a hunt!” Dean protested. “Some wishing well case in Idaho, I don’t know the details, it’s not like she and Dad tell me anything anymore. C’mon, Bobby, it’s someone’s life on the line here, be a pal.”

Bobby sighed. “ _What makes you think Christian will give it to me_?”

“Because you’re an upstanding citizen who has just about everyone important in your pocket, which I’m pretty sure means he already owes you something,” Dean said. “And then I’ll owe you. See? Nice and neat.”

Bobby grumbled under his breath, but conceded that it was a shitty thing for those Campbells to hold a monopoly over anti-vampire venom. He promised to do his best to get some out there for Tamara, pronto.

“May rainbows blow out of your beautiful ass, Bobby,” Dean said, and hung up.

Tamara had arranged the bite victim on the table as comfortably as she could. Dean pushed the clean cloths under her neck, padding her head and soaking up the blood. It was a small bite compared to others Dean had seen in his lifetime, but as long as there had been any move by the vampires to turn the victim, it needed to be dealt with as soon as possible.

“You’ll be okay,” Tamara said, stroking a hand over her sweat-lined forehead. “This is Dean. He’s a friend. He’s going to help. Dean, this is Anna.”

“Hey, Anna,” Dean said, smiling comfortingly. “You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

Anna gurgled but nodded, brave through the pain.

“What’s with him?” Dean asked, canting his head at the guy who was still standing in the middle of the room, silent and staring at the terrors in his head. Under the bar’s lights, the streaks of blood across his white dress shirt were clearly visible. Dean shoved at Tamara’s arm. “Had a bad one?”

“Chopped off two vamps’ heads,” Tamara said with an irritated headshake, “trying to save his sister here. Who, I should add, headed into the nest after a friend. Utterly insane, the both of them, and damn near ruined the whole hunt.”

“Her friend got out okay?” Dean asked.

Tamara’s mouth thinned. “Isaac’s on it.”

“I have to go back,” the other guy said suddenly. He’d woken up from his stupor and was frowning at Anna. “It’s unfinished. They’ll need help.”

“Hey, buddy,” Dean said, rising to his feet. “Uh—”

“Christopher,” Tamara supplied.

“Christopher,” Dean said. “Isaac’s a pro, he and the others can take care of it. Your sister needs you—”

“Don’t tell me what my sister needs,” Christopher snapped. “I know what she needs – a cure. Which Tamara said you have.”

 “Yeah, and it’s on its way,” Dean said. “You need to calm down.”

“I am calm,” Christopher protested tightly, color high in his cheeks. “I am excellently calm, look at my hands. Steady, yes? Can you tell that I just killed two creatures I never thought even existed with them?”

“The machete helped,” Tamara muttered under her breath.

“Dude, it’s okay to be scared,” Dean said.

“I’m not _scared_ —”

“Your sister will be fine,” Dean said as calmly as he could, the perfect counterbalance to the way Christopher was faintly vibrating in place. “She won’t turn on my watch, I swear to you.”

It was a solid promise, more than the sum of its words. Christopher heard the iron-clad oath for what it was and stilled with surprise. He looked at Dean then, really _looked_ at him, for Dean and his word were worth paying attention to.

Dean shrugged. “Want to clean up?”

Christopher looked down at his blood-stained hands. “Yes, please.”

It happened regularly in Dean’s line of work that the occasional civilian be given a wash cloth and a stiff drink to tide them over their most recent experiences. Christopher opted for the sink instead of the wash cloth, scrubbed his hands clean, and then returned to his sister’s side to hold her hand. The uniform shirt was not salvageable, though, and Dean thought that was a crying shame.

“Can I help?” Christopher asked, watching while Tamara pushed a compress against Anna’s wounds. “Is that garlic?”

“Garlic essence, yes,” Tamara said. “Some of the more common legends are true. And you’re helping just by being here, that’s good.”

There was little to do after that but wait. Christopher was a silent presence at Anna’s side, eventually taking Tamara’s place when she left to check in with Isaac. Dean returned to cleaning the bar but kept an eye on the pair, watching Christopher’s soft murmurings of comfort and Anna’s weak smile of misdirected reassurance.

“She’s strong,” Dean said, approaching with a cup of water for him to help his sister drink. “You guys hang in there.” Christopher accepted the offering with a nod, and Dean clasped him on the shoulder.

“You’ve been doing this for a while, haven’t you?” Christopher asked quietly.

“Doesn’t mean it gets easy,” Dean said, tact holding back the _it could be far, far worse_ that he could’ve said otherwise.

“It’s different,” Christopher said, gently wiping the water that spilled from the corner of Anna’s mouth. “To see something like that up close. To be so painfully aware of how life and death can lie in your hands. I’m not… I’ve done things in my line of work, but not quite like that..”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged ruefully. “It can be a bit much.”

Christopher only relaxed when Ash finally arrived with the cure. The concoction arrived in a small vial that Dean handled carefully, delivering its precious contents into Anna’s mouth while Christopher watched, nodded, and said, “Now we wait?”

“She’s not that for gone, so we’re doing good time,” Dean said, pulling Anna’s eyelid gently to check her pupils. “Sleep it off, Advil in the morning, cross your fingers she’ll be fine.”

“I can mooch your Wi-Fi, right?” Ash asked, waving his laptop in the air. “It was a hell of a rush to get here, you’re welcome.”

“Don’t push it, Roadhouse.” Dean pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Router’s where it always is.”

Christopher clasped Ash’s hand firmly before he could escape. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Hey, man, no problem,” Ash said, nodding at Anna. “Glad to help.”

When Anna’s face finally smoothed over in restful sleep, Christopher’s shoulders gradually relaxed. He carefully placed her lax hand on her stomach before turning to Dean and saying, “This is a bar. I assume you’re well-stocked?”

“May I be kicked in the ass if it isn’t,” Dean said. He slid into his place behind the bar and cracked his knuckles. “You got a poison, soldier?”

“Hmm.” Christopher eyed Dean curiously as he settled on a stool. Dean pretended not to notice; he focused on wiping things down and letting Christopher reach his own conclusions. After a while Christopher said, “You said that just to provoke me. You know that’s not the right term.”

“Yeah, my dad’s ex-marine, I’m just messing,” Dean said with a grin. “Nice wings. Shame ‘bout the blood.”

“I’ll clean them properly later,” Christopher said with a tired glance down at his shirt’s insignia. “But about that drink… Why don’t you surprise me? I think you’d have some interesting thoughts about what I’d like.”

Dean’s grin stayed on as he set up the shot glasses.

“That gun,” Christopher said suddenly, gesturing to the piece hanging on the wall above Dean’s head. “A Winchester. I thought this place was named for a family, not a gun. That’s the impression I got from Tamara.”

“Hell, yeah, it’s named after us,” Dean said, splaying his arms wide proudly. “Welcome to The Winchester. We’re all about the family business here – saving people, hunting things, getting visitors a decent drink. That gun you’re making eyes at? Was used by my parents on their freaking wedding day. Long story, don’t ask.”

Christopher scowled faintly. “Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why shouldn’t I ask?” Christopher pulled a filled shot glass closer to himself; Dean found himself appreciating his elegant fingers. “Just… the sheer intricacy of this place. Garlic, salt, silver, iron. Religious icons integrated into your décor. _Community._ How far does this go?”

“As far as it needs. Which reminds me.” Dean dug into one of the drawers underneath, finding a business card that he handed over. “Take this. She can hook you up, help get things back on track. You know, sliding back into the outside world but with… precautions.”

Christopher ran a thumb over the card’s embossed surface. “Jessica Moore?”

“My sister-in-law,” Dean said. “Not really a hunter but she’s friendly. She and my brother, they… Well, let’s just say they run interference.”

“Thank you,” Christopher said as he pocketed his card. His sudden smile of amusement lit up his face, changed the shape of his eyes. “It must be nice, to know your place in the world like this.”

“Hah!” Dean leaned across the bar top to look Christopher straight in the eye. “Let me be honest with you, Chris. The pay is crap, the hours long and there’s always something waiting to kill you. And that’s the fun part. Try balancing a legit front for Uncle Sam while you’re dealing with stuff the rest of the world don’t want to know.”

Christopher nodded firmly, his understanding clear. “What must be done, must be done. We are but tiny cogs in a great machine.”

“I guess you’d know,” Dean said, eyes dropping briefly to Christopher’s Air Force badge, gleaming between the flecks of dry blood. “Hey, I’ll drink to that. Here’s to being a goddamn cog.”

Their glasses clinked softly.

“But a Winchester gun at a Winchester wedding?” Christopher asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the trophy piece. “Sounds too poetic to be true.”

Dean chuckled. “You have no idea.”

He’d been doing this for a while, so he knew the signs, knew where to look. Dean could tell from Christopher’s steady hands and sharp eyes that he was unafraid of learning how far the rabbit hole went. It didn’t happen often, not when it usually was tragedy or necessity that pulled people into this world, but it did happen.

With Christopher’s unfettered interest urging him on, in no time Dean was leaping into tales of vampires and werewolves, ghosts and gremlins, the legendary Samuel Colt and mystical Devil’s Gates.

The world rolled on, oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links:
> 
> [Post-story timestamp](http://scaramouche.dreamwidth.org/306820.html).
> 
> [Accompanying art by positivesarcasm.](http://positivesarcasm.livejournal.com/1779.html?style=mine)
> 
> [Extended author's notes.](http://scaramouche.dreamwidth.org/262024.html)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Judicious Application of Free Will(Chinese version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140827) by [Peggy_Gaugh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peggy_Gaugh/pseuds/Peggy_Gaugh)




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